Filling my buckets of red—
I promise you,
I don’t have enough yet.
I don’t have enough anger
to paint the hands
of every man
who ever dared
to be a traitor.
Filling my buckets of red—
I promise you,
I don’t have enough yet.
I don’t have enough anger
to paint the hands
of every man
who ever dared
to be a traitor.