Warlords for sale or rent, bombs that leave fifty dead,
No ifs, no ands, no buts, their platoon's in a rut,
Ah but, twelve days of bombing towns, buys a four-bit funeral gown.
I'm a man of guns by all means, King of the Dead.

Third warthog bombing run, destination Afghanistan,
Old worn out socks and shoes, can't even buy some booze,
We bomb old people we have found, guess you won't see them around,
I'm a man of guns by all means, King of the Dead.

I know we've got little brains, blood and guts and filthy stains,
And every handout from Uncle Sam,
And every Russian that ain't from last time they came,

I sing,

Warlords for sale or rent, bombs that leave fifty dead,
No food, no guns, no guts, their platoon's in a rut,

Warlords for sale or rent, bombs that leave fifty dead,
No food, no guns, no guts, their platoon's in a rut, [fade]