I often hear the callnOf the infantrymen as they fallnTo the depths of menThe depths of me.nnAnd when the night has gonenAnd the trenches greet the dawnnWhat it asks of menWhat it wants me to bennOh, the firing linenOh, the firing line.nnIt still remainsnIn a sea of october rainnAnd the eyes of a frightened lonely childnStare inside of me.nnOh, the firing linenOh, the firing linennAnd who of all my friendsnWill be there at the endnWhen they lay me outnWhen they lay me out?nnOh, the firing linenOh, the firing linennOh, the firing linenOh, the firing line.