Blood on the sand

Blood on the hands

of a handful of madman



What a way to see the world

Through the smeared window of a TV-Screen



Technicolour assasinations

Assasinations that make me scared and afraid

Afraid of the streets that breed malice and hatred



Those with their heads bowed to the darkness

Those who can't see for the glave of the light

Those without strength

Who can't raise hands yet alone guns

Become prisoners of concience

Though not your concience



You cheer and rejoice as life trickles away

Through the outlets you give in the shape of a gun



Our world is slipping quickly away