There is no moral high ground on the battlefield,
There is only the high ground,
And, if you know what you’re about,
You’ll damn well grab it.
Little Round Top, Vimy Ridge, Montecassino, The Golan Heights, Divis Flats.

The high ground: nothing moral there,
‘Cause once you’ve got it,
You’ve got to hold it,
And, paradoxically,
That means gettin’ down in the dirt with the other guy.

And that entails: blasting him apart,
Burning him down to a screaming globule,
Hacking his face open with an entrenching tool,
If all other high-tech solutions fail, then you
Throttle the bastard with your bare hands.

Then, when he’s finally down,
You keep on kicking his bloodied head in,
Until he begs you either to end it, or to end him,
Then, if you’re so inclined, you patch the poor sod up,
Only then do you ascend to the moral high ground.

You see, it doesn’t matter,
If you’re on the side of the angels or not,
Mars forever shares his bed with Lucifer,
Therein lies the paradox,
Lidice, Dresden, Nanking, Hiroshima, Sebrenicja.