Who are these ones who would lead us now to the sound of a thousand guns?
Who'd storm the gates of hell itself to the tune of a single drum?
Where are the girls of the neighborhood bars whose loves were lost at sea
in the hills of France and on German soil from Saigon to Wounded Knee,
who come from long lines of soldiers, whose duty was fulfilled
In the words of a warriors will and protocol?

Where are the boys in their coats of blue who flew when their eyes were blind?
Was God in town for the Roman games, was he there when the deals were signed?
Who are the kings in their coats of mail who rode by the cross to die?
Did they all go down into worthiness, is it wrong for a king to cry?
And who are these ones who would have us now,
whose presence in concealed, whose nature is revealed in a time bomb?

Last of all, you old seadogs who travel after whale,
you'd storm the gates of hell itself for the taste of a mermaid's tail,
who come from long lines of skippers, whose duty was fulfilled
in the words of a warrior's will and protocol.