She sat by the grave where her dear son lay And shivered in her robes of black, Suffering as she remembered the terrible day She realised her boy would never come back. She gripped his hand: strong and warm Weeping as she said her goodbye And stood in the middle of the storm, Watching her son go off to die. And oh, oh, the Angel of Death hath come, Knocking at the door, Convincing men of what must be done. Taking the boys off to war. They sacrifice the innocent, the young, the strong, the hale; full of ideologies that are doomed to fail. They sit up on their perches Overseeing the wrong deed, While mothers cry out in churches Knowing their boys bleed. So good men listen when I say, "Going off to war, will never win the day. Follow your heart, do what is right. Don't abandon your mother. Don't rush to the fight."