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How did they manage to decode us?
We were nothing but tools for the trade
Do we drive so easily to extreme?
Stricken by years of being afraid
Behind the cinderblocks of trauma
There is a hidden room for guilt
No we won't march in shame
To be butchered by your idle hands
No we won't lower heads
Fed unto the spiritual guilliotine
Inflicted with thoughts against a common foe
Never to trust a stranger again
Even though subterfuge slowly starts to grow
Old habits are hard to be slain
You cannot stop this deadly drama
Buried under tons of grit
Too many despeate lines were written
Too many distress calls been made
Too many mothers mourned too many sons
Too many years of being afraid
No - we won't march in shame
No - we won't take the blame
No - we won't lower heads
No - we won't!