You’ll say again that we must fight,
That our life is like a game,
And I must play my last trump card.
But I just want to run away.
I’m not like you. I’m not so brave.
Why should we suffer, cry and shoot?
And what’s the sense to strive for good?
My silly head is badly hurt.
But bellicose now is my mood.
My blood is up, upon my word!
I have already understood
The things that seemed to be so moot,
And why we are to risk and shoot…