War Supply

Song	War Supply
Artist	Bathory
Album	Octagon

Lyrics

	作词 : Quorthon
	War. The ultimate.
	The pinnacle of friend or foe.
	Always declared by the high and fought out by the low.
	Elevated to the state of honourable feud.
	Fought to capitulation or death.
	Either him or you.
	Cannon fodder dressed up proud to fight or even die.
	Carrying cross of
	Christ, the star of
	David, Swastika or word of
	God, the hammer and the sickle or banner splattered with your blood.
	Camouflaged and drilled you await all hell in confidence, at peace.
	Blown apart, one could not tell your brains from your feet.
	As your spirit slips away and
	Earth drinks from your blood.
	The irony is that the last thing you'll think is - "Oh my God!".
	When your...
	War Supply.
	War Supply.
	War Supply.
	Not until that mine has torn you in two you'll think just fucking "why".
	At the bottom of the crater in a burning deaths terrain.
	You grab your head as if to keep yourself from goin' insane.
	Tracers cut a million burning tracks above your head.
	Staring at your support weapon, wishing that you'd dare.
	Just one delicate press on the trigger and it's all gone.
	Ask yourself if your one life is worth spending this way.
	Tell me where's all glory you seek among countless young men slain.
	Indoctrinated as you are by church, school, government and your command you'll think more of how your death will contribute and benefit your land.
	In uniform you look all swell as you march off to war.
	From now on your damn rubber body-bag will be your style forever more.
	War Supply.
	War Supply.
	War Supply.
	War Supply.
	War Supply.
	War Supply.
	War Supply.
	War Supply.
	War Supply.
	War Supply.
	War Supply.
	Not until that mine has torn you in two you'll think just fucking "why".

Pinyin

	zuò cí : Quorthon
	War. The ultimate.
	The pinnacle of friend or foe.
	Always declared by the high and fought out by the low.
	Elevated to the state of honourable feud.
	Fought to capitulation or death.
	Either him or you.
	Cannon fodder dressed up proud to fight or even die.
	Carrying cross of
	Christ, the star of
	David, Swastika or word of
	God, the hammer and the sickle or banner splattered with your blood.
	Camouflaged and drilled you await all hell in confidence, at peace.
	Blown apart, one could not tell your brains from your feet.
	As your spirit slips away and
	Earth drinks from your blood.
	The irony is that the last thing you' ll think is " Oh my God!".
	When your...
	War Supply.
	War Supply.
	War Supply.
	Not until that mine has torn you in two you' ll think just fucking " why".
	At the bottom of the crater in a burning deaths terrain.
	You grab your head as if to keep yourself from goin' insane.
	Tracers cut a million burning tracks above your head.
	Staring at your support weapon, wishing that you' d dare.
	Just one delicate press on the trigger and it' s all gone.
	Ask yourself if your one life is worth spending this way.
	Tell me where' s all glory you seek among countless young men slain.
	Indoctrinated as you are by church, school, government and your command you' ll think more of how your death will contribute and benefit your land.
	In uniform you look all swell as you march off to war.
	From now on your damn rubber bodybag will be your style forever more.
	War Supply.
	War Supply.
	War Supply.
	War Supply.
	War Supply.
	War Supply.
	War Supply.
	War Supply.
	War Supply.
	War Supply.
	War Supply.
	Not until that mine has torn you in two you' ll think just fucking " why".