There are semi-automatics, made in factories, sold in stores
there are hollow pointed bullets that are only made for wars.
There are businessmen in shirtsleeves, selling guns to make a buck,
while in the darkening city an ex-convict’s out of luck.
There’s a killing in the alley, a killing in the street,
a killing on the sidewalk where a corpse lies in defeat.
There are rifles in the closet, there are pistols in the drawer,
there are shells in the chamber of a Magnum 44.
A friend was killed a month ago, when a bullet went astray,
and a man whose name was taken when his face was blown away.
There are bullets in the body of a seven year old girl,
and a bullet in her grandma, I think her name was Pearl.
My grandpa shot the Germans, my dad the Viet Cong,
my cousin shot Iraqis, the same old bloody song.
He saw such death in Baghdad, he wished that he was dead,
and made his wish come true with a bullet in his head.
There’s a body on the front porch, the feet against the door,
there’s a body in the basement, lying dead upon the floor.
There is murder in the headlines almost each and every day,
and teddy bears and flowers piled where children try to play.
There is weeping and promises when mourners come to cry,
but secretly each wonders who will be the next to die?
We’ve become so used to killing, we almost do not care,
we can live with firearm violence, as long as it’s elsewhere.
Do we want to cool the anger, stop the slaughter, end the grief,
or remain both safe and sorry as we watch in disbelief?
Can we stand in opposition, do we dare to say enough,
while a gangsta loads his pistol, another life to snuff?
There are men among the shadows very rich from selling death,
while a bullet riddled baby takes its first and final breath.