The hands of time turn lonely on the plains.
There was six thousand bodies,
now thirteen remain.
Like a bakers dozen,
cooking, underneath the sun.
Underneath the plains of fear,
missing everyone.
Missing Sunday dinners,
a kind word from a trusted friend.
Underneath the plains of fear,
there's no time to pretend.
No time to hide from all that love
that graced us as we shun.
Underneath the plains of fear,
me and my old gun.

.