There's blood in your eye.
There's blood on the orange moon.
I notice the blood in the gutter of my bayonet.
There's blood in the gutters of the streets,
and in the gutters of the mortician's table.
Blood in the sand.
Blood in the jungles.
Blood on the city streets.
The blood of the soldier runs red.
The "blue bloods" never spill.
The blood in their veins run icy-cold.
Cold-hearted they are.
Blood means profit.
The powerful only have blue moons.
They don't notice the bayonet,
or feel its sharp penetration.
They step on blood-red carpets.
They accept humanitarian awards.
They never step in the gutter.
They make donations for tax shelters.
But in secret rooms they plot.
They support regimes.
There's blood in their eyes.
It's not seen.
So onward we march.
For flag and country.
For God and family.
For the powers that be.
You and me.
We are enemies.
For those whose blood runs cold.