They approach the field of lush green
Grasses that yield seeds will be turned to mud
Mixed in with the wet dirt is their blood
Warriors or thugs they’re all tough
Nice country side hills turn to battle fields
As they die you hear their battle cry

There is no lie about a warrior’s cry
They sport the color of mean hulk green
Devastation to whenever they bring mostly fields
Slapping, slamming, and stabbing in the mud
No doubt these warriors are tough
Legends and legacies run through their blood

At the end of the battle the morning sun sports their blood
In the diminishing night of their calming cry
A night of ruffians on the tough
What happened to the hill of green?
A victorious victory treaded in foot prints of mud
Many kills had happened on this field

Flooded with dead souls that roam the grassy field
Flooded to your knees of fallen warriors blood
At the end of the day it always mixes with mud
At night you can hear the fallen battle cry
In a grave yard of uniforms painted mean green
The weak die just like the tough

If the warrior isn’t tough
They cannot approach the field
Because he has no pride of wearing green
He rather bleed pink, than bleed my red blood
He’d rather fight to die than announce his cry
And he’d rather drown in the mud

But a true warrior loves the mud
He loves the thud from his partner of being tough
He’ll be as loud and hard as he wants when he sounds his cry
Because he owns the field
He own’s it because in the grass and dirt legends and legacies run in it’s blood

The battle fields turn to mud
You have to be tough to drop blood
They will hear your cry every time they see green

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