MAN WE NEED A NEW GIG
Draft notice slammed down, no warning, no mercy,
just a cold bus ride to a war we never asked for.
Boots hit dirt like a curse, sky coughing fire,
air thick enough to chew.
We were kids with rifles, shaking,
trying to look like men as the world exploded in front of us.
We should’ve died, but the fire missed.
We’re done with their war.
We’re building our own noise.
First shots cracked, then everything cracked—
ground, nerves, the thin thread holding us together.
Didn’t want to be heroes, didn’t want to be killers,
just wanted to go home and breathe air that didn’t scream.
But the bullets didn’t care,
so we ran straight into the storm
because stopping meant never getting up again.
We should’ve died, but the fire missed.
We’re done with their war.
We’re building our own noise.
Hand‑to‑hand hell, faces too close,
breath too hot, rage too real to name.
Fists, knives, mud in our teeth,
blood in the air thick as oil.
We swung wild, swung blind,
swung because the world was trying to erase us
and we weren’t ready to vanish.
We should’ve died, but the fire missed.
We’re done with their war.
We’re building our own noise.
Then silence.
Not peace—just the kind of quiet
that feels like the world forgot to breathe.
Smoke peeled back slow,
like it was afraid of what it might show.
And there we were, every one of us,
standing, whole, alive,
shaking like the earth still had its hands on us.
We should’ve died, but the fire missed.
We’re done with their war.
We’re building our own noise.
When we get home, no more marching,
no more orders, no more dying for strangers.
We’ll trade helmets for amps, dog tags for drumsticks,
and scream the truth they tried to bury.
If the world wants quiet,
they picked the wrong survivors.
We should’ve died, but the fire missed.
We’re done with their war.
We’re turning the wreckage into a band.
