We march on over the ruins of this town.
We march on until there’s nothing left.
We march on knocking down the fences.
We march on crashing like a storm.
We fall at night like an icy spear,
a furious wind that sweeps this land away.
We march on, just like the dogs of Hades.
We march on, growing on scorched earth.
We march on, get out of the trenches.
We march on, straight to victory.
This is only justice in clothes of tragedy.
We’ll take the snakes out of the snake pit.
We can resist the stamp of the empire.
We write our fate with the naked hands.
We can resist, listen to me.
We write our fate and nobody else can.
We can resist, listen to me.
We'll write our fate with these hands.
That's the meaning of democracy.
We are the mob and we are the guillotine.
With these hands.
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