On Easter Sunday, two thousand and eight,
They issued the latest fatality rate.
Four thousand American soldiers killed,
In bloody Iraq.

Imagine those ghostly legions parading,
With shuffling feet, and heartbeats fading.
A two mile column of dead men marching,
Through bloody Iraq.

Tell me. What are these young men dying for?
In a reckless, pointless, political war.
And who bears the shame for sending these men?
To bloody Iraq.

Time you the column, as it passes close by.
Allow one second of time for each fallen GI.
With a full hour spent, the dead men keep coming,
From bloody Iraq.

“How many deaths will it take?” goes the song.
Till he knows that this conflict is morally wrong,
And too many young men have needlessly died,
For bloody Iraq.