The crops should be full in belgium this year,The soil shuld be fertile, but the price has been dear, The wheat should be red on the hills of bastogne, For its roots have been drenched by the blood of our own. Battered and reeling we stand in their way, it's here we are, and here we will stay. Embittered, Wrathful, we watch our pals fall, god, where's the end, the end of it all?
Confident and powerful, they strike at our lines, But we beat them back, fighting for time. Beserk with fury, they are hitting us now, flesh against steel - we'll hold - but how? For each day that we stay, more mothers must greive. For each hill that we hold more men we must leave. Yes, honor the men who will some day come home, but pray for the men 'neath the hills of bastogne.