The Range
Morning cracks open hard.
Rifles in our hands before we’re fully awake.
Targets shaped like men waiting downrange,
blank faces staring back like they know something.
We don’t talk about it.
We just line up.
PT grinds the softness out of us.
Running till the world shakes loose.
Sergeant barking like he’s carving new bones into our backs.
Keep moving, keep shooting,
they’re shaping us into something else.
Keep moving, keep shooting,
paper targets today, real pressure tomorrow.
Keep moving, keep shooting,
this training is changing us, piece by piece.
We fire again.
Paper tears clean,
but the sound hits deeper than it should.
Some guys stare at the holes too long.
Some look away fast.
Either way, it sticks to you.
Pre‑Chorus
Marching drills beat a rhythm into our legs.
Not a rhythm we chose,
just the one they hammered in.
Keep moving, keep shooting,
they’re shaping us into something else.
Keep moving, keep shooting,
paper targets today, real pressure tomorrow.
Keep moving, keep shooting,
this training is changing us, piece by piece.
Rumors say we’re headed “over there.”
Nobody says where.
Nobody needs to.
The training already points in that direction.
Keep moving, keep shooting,
they’re shaping us into something else.
Keep moving, keep shooting,
paper targets today, real pressure tomorrow.
Keep moving, keep shooting,
this training is changing us, piece by piece.
Morning again.
Same dirt.
Same rifles.
Same drills.
But we’re not the same.
Not anymore.
Keep moving, keep shooting.
