Church bells chiming
Wind tunes ringing
2012 only 8 years later
How quick the world staggers
from a bullet to the chest
slowly it all comes to an abrupt halt
In a forever moving world
a standstill

The call to arms approaching
The sons gearing
From being  kids playing in the fields
with toy guns made from paper-fingers
Turned to hardened steel in the coming days
Roaming the streets in servitude
Protecting the protected upper class
Like a farmer protecting the prized cattle
Leaving the rest for sheep to the slaughter
Plagued by the forthcoming exposure
How quickly the world recovers from an infected bullet
Now that the magazine has eroded
And the reserves stored

Behind the houses used as protection
we lay in wait
our own personalised prison