The missile finds the child,
And they do nothing but walk by…
The missile finds the child but they don their disguise…

The foetus finds the ground,
But there’s no one around
At least no one willing to care…

The missile finds the child,
But we’re more concerned about saying the wrong thing to each other than saying ‘I love you…’

The missile finds the child, but we’re destitute and fear feeling…

The missile finds the child, but we’re black water frozen,
Our mechanisms broken,
Our robots erred;

And this whole slave ship design - to crush all of our senses, is ended - expended -

All that’s left is a haunted, weeping child that would even forgive you for your horrors,
But you would rather die than see your true reflection in those waters…

Orchestratedly killing children, what kind of child were you?
Shoot shoot with no feeling, see how you’ll have no future, sucker…

You think that you’ve marred their grave,
But the child’s cloud escapes…

You’re not even a part of the picture -
Only a void for the paintings that will stay to show how great they are and how sick you were…

You’ve got no place, no room, no virtue,
So more fool you…
You’re not a conductor of any orchestra -

You’re just a fraying lace in an old man’s shoe
Yet look how young you are - or could have been…

I know you’re not one for feeling anything but you’ve got to admit; the deafening din of children’s wailing light and death’s scythe keeping you secretly afraid all night is gonna be hard to remove…

With the blue face of Picasso,
he grabs all the strangely dismembered and distorted deprivations,
pressing them like wild flower stencils onto the canvas before him…

His sausage fingers rolling up his collaged carnage cigar… placing it to his clay mouth -
Looking at the skyscrapers outside his house
“I do this for my paradise country…”

On a dizzy permutation of this ferocious routine; he realises - nothing fits -
“I’m a preacher in my own ****…”
But the apple is sweeter because of me…
The pear trees are weaker…
And at least we lost their weeping wisdom
and childish victimisation…

remember…

“We make the system - ” art is meat, art is mickey…

And we’ve shrivelled their fruit to display in exhibitions, give to our children; and to flavour our unique trappings of meat certification…