the young child, head in hands, mourning
having heard those gun shots on that dark morning
kneeled over his fathers body, screaming
once watery eyes, now streaming
no sierns, just silence
created by those few moments of wildness
what a great fathers day it turned out to be
the so young child, what he had to see
bulletts cut trough the air and then, pierce a lung
he feels like the platform has been removed and hes just bin hung
now hes hugging the body, the fire starts in his eyes
anger generates, just after some one close dies
he stands up and sees the mack on the floor
picks it up, looks for the killer and starts screaming for more
his grip tightens, and the trigger spring hardens
passing pedestrians still lying in gardens
he lifts up the gun, the bullets explodes and digs deep
his muslces relax and he lays dead in a heap
