These people, they are depraved thugs,
We awaken to the rattling of angry semi-automatics,
We coil and bundle in fearful hugs,
The horror of war created by thundersticks.
In the house of prayer, we find no peace,
The headless bullet-riddled Jesus is still pinned to the cross,
And ominous sign that wanton killing won’t cease,
When we pray how can he hear, he has no ear to hear our loss.
These people have ruined our day,
We created a culture of evil mix with child’s play,
The hate and fear of all that is strange,
Has created this monster that is us,
We kill; we destroy and accuse the devil in all unfairness.
I’ve heard the rattling of guns,
And what did I do?
I struck a chord on my guitar
And hummed a dirge to its rattling tune.
The choir of guns performs in the insurgent’s heaven,
The bass of the bazooka is the rebel leader’s choice,
For the child soldier the alto of the A. K 47
Or perhaps the silenced pistol who lost her voice,
And the soprano of the machine gun sings for the Guerrilla boys.
When the blues are rendered bloody red,
As slowly the sun steals to her secret shed,
Anxious mothers coo their babies with hushes,
And when the last ember is spent and all is ashes,
Bile rises up our throat for fear of raptors that walk the night.
As we pray to the Lord our souls to keep,
Our amen is met by the applause of guns,
And automatics waiting to lull us to sleep,
To refresh us for tomorrow’s horror dance.
The night will be peppered with rattles again,
Causing fevered screeches from startled bats,
And babies in one accord will join the song of pain,
Festering the wounds of our ulcerated hearts.
Far off, somewhere in the dark a mother wails,
For a lost son,
But her wails are drowned on this sinister night,
And all we hear are the painfully sweet musical guns.