They sway in their panzer camps
Those narcoleptic namby-pams
A million years old
And dumb as a fly
It never makes them cry
They dig into their arctic core
The same hole bored eight times or more
With the wisdom of the angels
Even as they die
It never makes them cry
Just swallow whole and evermore
The day before the day before
There is no bad news. There is no bad news
The general knows why
It never makes them cry
And always they will seek to see
A vision made of fleur de lis
But Vichyssoise and axle grease
Is straight ahead to say the least
The wipers are never dry
It never makes them cry