Rouse the lazy buggers from their bed!
We need them answering our endless call:
new generations want to see them fall
in mud, in grainy black and white, fall dead
and rise, like dawn, like tears in teenage eyes.
Oh they had guts all right, back then. They saw
their guts, exploded from torn bodies, wore
their insides out, died writhing, but died sure
that others came behind: there’s always more.
The young are not our future: they’re supplies.
Get up you lazy bastards! Up! No death
for you, no sleep, no quiet bird song, no
repose: resuscitation without breath.
We need you to enlist the next to go.