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…
