Commercial liners, gutted,
painted black, and rigged with cannons,
sit unfinished at the harbor
as we race to smelt their armor
Raid your kitchens and your basements
Strip your cars, yank the faucets
Every doorknob yields a handful
of precious little rivets
The Front is now concave, God save
The favored force is burning fumes
The force is running on its fumes
British silver vases take a swim
inside the melting tins
An urn for you and all your kids
to stuff with nails and metal lids,
and God forbid! Don't waste the spoons
The force is running on its fumes
A bullet from your Grammy's teeth,
but Sir, you did the best for her
The Front is now concave, God save
The effort lacks some more raw lead
The troops are going without bread
Retribution doesn't fuel a tank
The ranks are looking rather rank,
Our bayonets are notched and warped,
and they make awful javolines
We're down to armored mules and whiskey bombs
Our faith is in the plague
that our own aging dead have made
The Front is caving low, God blow
the germs from us to them
Let's hope the winds will spread it thick
With luck we'll make the bastards sick