Now grit your teeth -
the grit won't grind.
Sandstorm's gonna blow
Don't hold your breath
but use your sleeve -
your brother's gotta go
A mountain crag
holds forty men,
but no one really knows
a Kabul street
could call us out
if one guy's backpack blows
the wind is hard
the sand wears down
the bottom of our soles
they're holding tribes
to melt 'em down -
that country's full of holes
and it could cost you
daughters, sons
and all their future goals
with all the soldiers
you bring in
to please a million fools
