World War Four is an euthenasia. Poor fields, together, make a nation. Driven by primortal passion, It will be be a quick decision, has to be a quick incision. as the peasants sing: Do-dah, Do-dah, HA! Politics vs.the individual he pumps, he pushes he stops, he pops he doesn't make the grade allways running, allways chasing shadows of a different sun while the bomber sings: Do-dah, Do-dah, HA! Everyone tries to reach for it knowing the price is too high The presence of Death is dealt in tune with nothing Horse and tractor, the wheels in motion a shot in the dark, below the belt still the fighter's fight Do-die, Do-die, ha.