Cursed Hell Comes Home
Welcome home in a bodybag from the front lines of defeat. Discharged "to a normal life" in a room that's two feet wide and six feet deep.
And the flag on your coffin, it might as well be the nails. When all else fails, you are the wind that sets their sails to a war played out before you were born. Business as usual. It's business as usual. Your business as usual is killing us all. So bring out your dead. Chalk up the score and we'll go through the motions once more.
Buried on a Sunday in a military grave with a six gun salute from the master to the slave. For the life that you gave. The promises that they broke. And the bribes that you paid.
Back in the land of the dead you're buried where you fall. No glorious deeds etched into a wall. The monument is the blood in the sand. Blood in the oil. Blood on your hands.
When Hell comes home, there's Hell to pay. This is the price of oil.
