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Walking south along the river |
|
Never had he found that twist of pleasure |
|
Remembering times when they were younger |
|
Setting the town on fire |
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And watching as his fellow friends |
|
Fell apart in the wake |
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Claiming it was all just a mistake |
|
When his finger pulled the trigger |
|
And he shot everyone |
|
It was all just a mistake |
|
When he shot everyone |
|
Nothing will stand in the way |
|
When hunger hasn't eaten for days |
|
Scrounges around where ends meet |
|
And disappears into the fray |
|
He hopes for awhile he'll reconcile |
|
The pain that never dies |
|
The ghosts of his family constantly |
|
Gnawing at his insides |
|
He pulls out a worn photo |
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And an old handmade gun |
|
Wishes it was he who was frying |
|
When he set the whole town on fire |
|
He walks off crying |
|
He shot everyone |
