Jooish plutocracy getting ready to send Americans to die. Unfortunate sons.
Yeah, some folks inherit star-spangled eyes
They send you down to war
And when you ask ’em, “How much should we give?”
They only answer, “More, more, more”
It ain’t me, it ain’t me
I ain’t no military son, son
It ain’t me, it ain’t me
I ain’t no fortunate one, one