30 000 Storm-troops marched in the rain,
Under the Blood-red Banner of Zurich.
Give them a shot of therapy when they
Get back, get back to where it all began.
To me, it didn’t matter that they could
Or could not concentrate, they still noted
Down the paper-trail of the seasons good
Enough, the gold-chains tugged at their necks.
When the sun gets in his eyes he’ll scream then,
With 30 000 voices, 30 000 battle-cries as one,
He’ll seal his lips upon a gun, and blast
But anyone who cares, will take the bullet.
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