He’s off to fight a war,
we’ll see it on T.V.
He’s off to fight a war,
him, not you or me.

Gone to foreign deserts,
in far off distant lands.
Gone to fight an enemy,
in swirling yellow sands.

To crush the reign of terror,
and stop a Tyrant dead.
He’s fighting for our freedom,
while we’re sleeping in our beds.

The suits and Politicians,
all sitting ‘locked in talks’
They stand up on the evening news,
Whilst in the sand he walks.

He’s launching monster rockets,
sends them flying through the air.
Zoomed in on a target,
a tiny little square.

Was it a bomb factory?
or just people making paint?
It’s flattened now, we’ll never know,
but the Tyrant he’s no saint.

For is he stocking weapons?
both chemical and bombs.
Or are the victims of the war,
the innocent Kids and Moms?

He’s still there following orders,
Launching bombs at tiny squares.
Listening to old sayings,
‘He who wins, is he who dares’

But the enemy will fight back,
will he one day come home?
Or will he be a number,
a statistic on a form?

Whatever maybe the reasons,
for sending him off to fight.
He’ll just follow orders,
whether wrong, or whether right.