The song of the arms dealers

We stuffed our coffers fast and full while workers filled their coffins,
We piled our profits rafter-high and left them just one option:
to take a single shilling and to make their children orphans,
and gave to them thanks of a grateful nation.

Year after year, war after war, we sold the guns they'd need.
We sold the bombs and kept no scores, whatever made them bleed.
He sold them his, I sold them mine, we'd toast how well we'd done,
and gave to them thanks of a grateful nation.

No mustard gas in St Tropez, no mistral at Verdun,
no justice bought for any price while we controlled the coin,
and French and German coughed their last while we were having fun,
and giving them thanks of a grateful nation.

It wasn't champagne in our glass, it wasn't crystal chiming,
it wasn't fine wine that we drank while dancing and fine-dining,
but workers blood in workers skulls, while workers did the dying,
and got from us thanks of a grateful nation.

And you sleep soundly in your bed. You do not drown in mud
beneath a flare and flack filled sky amid the screams and thuds.
You do not really wonder why. You do not ask. Instead
you give to them thanks of a grateful nation.