Gift horses have crooked teeth,
And ours are flawless, for we have none.
Lips don’t swell from complaining.
Everyone is guilty the war still goes on.

The tank isn’t the right kind,
The guns aren’t the right ones,
The planes aren’t the right ones,
Too weak to fight…
Let them take the slag heap —
I’m going abroad.

There’s no other way to drive the enemy out.
Rotten or crooked —
For the nation to survive,
We’ll have to defend our own.