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GAGA
He's twenty-Dfive, he's sick and tirAed, it's time to try the oDther side, A
D the B&I to paradiAse, to sergeants anGd their men. A A7
He's neverD been to Dun Na Ri, A combed the bDeaches after three, A
D chips and beer and greenery, brotAhers one and aGll. A A7
He signDed and took the soldiers crest,A a decent man in battle dDress, A
D when bugles blow you do your best, fAor sergeants and their menG. A A7
EmAllA for the Droses, oEmver theA seaD. G A
He's way aheDad, he's second to noneA, with his fabrique nationali gun, D A
D marching bands with Saxon blood, seArgeants and their meGn. A A7
They landeDd with the sinking sun,A an invasion by the media ruDn, A
D they covered up and they kissed with tongAues,
sGergeants and their men. A A7
But the phantom Dgunner danced the end, A
and batteDred human bodies bled, A
D they butchered us, we butchered themA, sergeants and their men.G A A7
EmAllA for the Droses, oEmver thAe sea. D
G All for the rosAes, FinglEmas boys to Abe. D
DADADAGA
Now a flower Dof sleep grows on his grave, A
forgotDten soon the cowards andA the brave,
but the coldeDst hate still lives todaAy, for sergeants and theGir men. A A7
EmAllA for the Droses, oEmver theA sea. D
G All for the rosAes, FinglEmas boys to Abe. D
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