For whom do the bells toll. When sentenced to die. The stuttering rifles. Will stifle the cry. The monstrous anger. The fear's rapid rattle. A desert inferno. Kids dying like cattle. Don't tell me. We're not prepared. I've seen today's marine. He's eighteen and he's eager. He can be quite mean. No mock'ries for them. No prayers or bells. The demented choirs. The wailing of shells. The boys holding candles. On untraveled roads. The fear spreads like fire. As shrapnel explodes. I think it's wrong. To conscript our youth. Against their will. When plenty of our citizenry. Really like to kill. What sign posts will lead. To armageddon's fires. What bugles will call them. From crowded grey shires. The women sit quiet. With death on their minds. A slow dusk descending. The drawing of blinds. Make the hunters all line up. It's their idea of fun. And let those be forgiven. Who never owned a gun. Was it him or me. Or the wailing of the dead. The laughing soldiers. Cast their lots. And you can cut the dread.