E C#m A E
The pilots playing poker in the cockpit of the plane
C#m A F#m
The casualties arriving like the dropping of the rain
E C#m A B
And a mountain of machinery will fall before a man
E G#m A B E
When you're white boots marching in a yellow land
It's written in the ashes of the village towns we burn
It's written in the empty bed of the fathers unreturned
And the chocolate in the childrens eyes will never understand
When you're white boots marching in a yellow land
C#m
Red blow the bugles of the dawn
B
The morning has arrived you must be gone
A B
And the lost patrol chase their chartered(*) souls
E D
Like cold/old(?) whores following tired armies
Train them well, the men who will be fighting by your side
And never turn your back if the battle turns the tide
For the colours of a civil war are louder than commands
When you're white boots marching in a yellow land
Blow them from the forest and burn them from your sight
Tie their hands behind their back and question through the night
But when the firing squad is ready they'll be spitting where they stand
At the white boots marching in a yellow land
Red blow the bugles of the dawn
The morning has arrived you must be gone
And the lost patrol chase their chartered souls