Back in the Middle Ages,
The nobles fought the wars,
The worst thing that they suffered from was falling off a horse,
They all wore heavy armour with lances and with shield,
And the lovely ladies watched them at the decorated field.
But when the wars got dirty,
With cannon balls and stuff,
With slagging thro the rice paddies and really playing rough,
With ak ak and machine guns, grenades and all like that,
The nobles gave the fighting to the proletariat.
Of armour there was little,
Of chain mail there was none,
The dog-face met the bullets with his open flesh and bone,
The big shots stay and run the wars,
Get richer all the time, And the one who gets the glory,
Posthumously but surely,
Is the soldier of the line.