The seconds, hours
The world in a shroud.
There's no where to run
All one does is cower.
The days go by
Dead men deny
An elaborate lie,
Till the day that they die.
Hope trickles away
Just as blood,
From each corpse that lay
Red runs wild
Wild like the fires at night.
There is no solitude here,
Once, free men, now fear
When their world is run
Under The Barrel of The Gun.