Soldiers

Our hair is long and unwashed Matter and a home for lice Our clothes are torn to pieces Nasty, full of paints We wear rivet, chains and leather Cartridge-belts and pentagrams Our souls belong to Satan Master of our fate Bang your heads against the stage Dive in the trashing crowds We mosh! We are outlaws, we are aliens We are proud Heavy is our music Fast and loud Weekend at a concert The band begins to play After all the drugs and beer Our reasons blown away A poser in the back-row Who doesn't bang his head Is undressed and walloped by us Until he's nearly dead We drink beer without chemicals We're possessed by sodomy Curse the gods, deplore the indians Weep for our trace and Sergeant D. We set the highest value On the musical ability We are sure that our favourites Are the best, can play anything