The poorest faces, that's ever seen.
Their pride is all they bare.
Bombings among their trees of green.
With a lonely saddened stare.
Their land, their lives, are no where clean.
Their land and lives, not fair.
Their view of death is always keen.
Viewing soldiers lined in pairs.
Freedom seems a faded dream.
Rags of fear they wear.
In the poorest land that's ever seen.
A smile would be rare.
And in the land we see the scene,
Of despair along it's cruel routine

Copyright ©2001 Joseph Michael Egan & Mike Gojcaj