E C#m A E
|
The pilots playing poker in the cockpit of the plane
|
C#m A F#m
|
The casualties arriving like the dropping of the rain
|
E C#m A B
|
And a mountain of machinery will fall before a man
|
E G#m A B E
|
When you're white boots marching in a yellow land
|
|
It's written in the ashes of the village towns we burn
|
It's written in the empty bed of the fathers unreturned
|
And the chocolate in the childrens eyes will never understand
|
When you're white boots marching in a yellow land
|
|
C#m
|
Red blow the bugles of the dawn
|
B
|
The morning has arrived you must be gone
|
A B
|
And the lost patrol chase their chartered(*) souls
|
E D
|
Like cold/old(?) whores following tired armies
|
|
Train them well, the men who will be fighting by your side
|
And never turn your back if the battle turns the tide
|
For the colours of a civil war are louder than commands
|
When you're white boots marching in a yellow land
|
|
Blow them from the forest and burn them from your sight
|
Tie their hands behind their back and question through the night
|
But when the firing squad is ready they'll be spitting where they stand
|
At the white boots marching in a yellow land
|
|
Red blow the bugles of the dawn
|
The morning has arrived you must be gone
|
And the lost patrol chase their chartered souls
|
Like cold whores following tired armies
|
|
The comic and the beauty queen are dancing on the stage
|
Raw recruits are lining up like coffins in a cage
|
We're fighting in a war we lost before the war began
|
We're the white boots marching in a yellow land
|
|
And the lost patrol chase their chartered souls
|
like cold whores following tired armies
|
|
-----------------
|
White Boots Marching In A Yellow Land
|
| Phil Ochs |
