I am the son of a grassland farmer

Western Oklahoma nineteen forty three

I always felt grateful to live in the land of the free

I gave up my father to South Korea

The mind of my brother to Vietnam

Now theres a banker who says I must give up my land

There are four generations of blood in this topsoil

Four generations of love on this farm

Before I give up I would gladly give up my right arm



What are we making weapons for

Why keep on feeding the war machine

We take it right out of the mouths of our babies

Take it away from the hands of the poor

Tell me, what are we making weapons for



I had a son and my son was a soldier

He was so like my father, he was so much like me

To be a good comrade was the best that he dreamed he could be

He gave up his future to revolution

His life to a battle that just cant be won

For this is not living, to live at the point of a gun

I remember the nine hundred days of Leningrad

The sound of the dying, the cut of the cold

I remember the moments I prayed I would never grow old



What are we making weapons for

Why keep on feeding the war machine

We take it right out of the mouths of our babies

Take it away from the hands of the poor

Tell me, what are we making weapons for



For the first time in my life I feel like a prisoner

A slave to the ways of the powers that be

And I fear for my children, as I fear for the for the future I see

Tell me how can it be were still fighting each other

What does it take for a people to learn

If our song is not sung as a chorus, we surely will burn



What are we making weapons for

Why keep on feeding the war machine

We take it right out of the mouths of our babies

Take it away from the hands of the poor

Tell