The Warriors Of Modern Death

All raised to be men.
Given image and path.
Supreme, idolised warriors.
Bright steel, burning rage.
Never too late to try.
Stand tall, never plead.
Live and let die.
I see the spirit of those ancestors.
And reconsider the faith.
A primitive sword can not win my war.
Cold fury, flaring eyes.
Calculated verbal gun.
My pride, justified.
Spiritual steel shines bright beyond the sun.
The pride of the warrior is far from dead.
The colours of death are still black and red.
Though modernised.
Blood wil be shed.