I catch sight of you, O Great Lord of the Guns,
My fiery eyes blaze at a cold, indifferent stare.
I gaze upon a face stale white from the long hours of monotony.
It isn't your job to know, you say, you only are paid to sell,
But you - you did not witness it:

A hand, rough from ages of despair,
clasping the smooth, black surface,
The tool of retribution, an instrument of revenge.
A vendetta against those who live better than he.

Tears run down pale faces,
Innocent children scream,
Faithful mothers plead for the lives of their loved ones,
A crowded supermarket under siege.

The piercing sound of a discharge,
Marking the time of first blood drawn.
Buckets of golden shells pour out,
Defiling the floor in unjust slaughter.

Drip, drip, drip, the bright red liquid,
Like the color of a roaring flame
Caresses the soft gound, as shrieks rise up,
Overcoming the last short breaths of death's first victim.

But still you say, O Great Lord of the Guns, it is not
Your problem to know, it is only your job to sell. As my hands,
Rough from ages of despair, clasp the smooth, black surface,
The tool of retribution, the instrument of revenge,
I swear I will make it your problem after all.