How did they manage to decode us? We were nothing but tools for the trade Do we drive so easily to extreme? Stricken by years of being afraid Behind the cinderblocks of trauma There is a hidden room for guilt No we won't march in shame To be butchered by your idle hands No we won't lower heads Fed unto the spiritual guilliotine Inflicted with thoughts against a common foe Never to trust a stranger again Even though subterfuge slowly starts to grow Old habits are hard to be slain You cannot stop this deadly drama Buried under tons of grit Too many despeate lines were written Too many distress calls been made Too many mothers mourned too many sons Too many years of being afraid No - we won't march in shame No - we won't take the blame No - we won't lower heads No - we won't!