More than always the strong lay down their arms,
And leave the weak to die.
Fires destroy the houses and farms,
the bodies left to lie.

We look upon this poor little town,
Here among the plains,
Keeping all this news in the down,
Travelers avoiding the town's lanes.

Saving us is the last thing on their minds,
No body pays mind to help us anyways.
And still they cross the lines,
We question ourselves if they'll care in future days.