Well, January rolls like a tank into June.
It leaves a smell there of fear and of dust.
And immigrants cry from the city outside, and nobody knows who to trust.
And people are nervous, the lies are as thick as the smell of burning hair.
And an underground river of hate builds in force, and it spills out into the air.

So stand to your rifles ready, 'cause this world is a world made of lies.
And raise a glass for the dead and the blood that they've shed,
and a glass for those yet to die.

Well, courage, it grows in fits and in starts, like the fumbling steps of a child.
And some people live by the rules of the heart, and others with malice and guile.
Well, the nights, they are long now, but justice remains.
She's sharpened her teeth and her claws,
and her body is wasted, her skin, it is torn.
But she's still got some strength in her jaws.

So stand to your rifles ready, 'cause this world is a world made of lies.
And raise a glass for the dead and the blood that they shed,
and a glass for those yet to die.

Pour a glass for those yet to die.