One nation, under fire

Let's talk about your guns

Let's debate until we tire,

God forbid I have it in me to say

anything ill of the toys you so love,

or the deadly bullets they fire.

Or maybe, you will claim

That same excuse ever so lame,

That maybe, it's the Dems that staged it

So the world once again would throw a fit.

And wage war against that piece of metal you adore,

To strip you off your stash and keep you from more.

Or maybe, you claim

Vegas was fabricated

a scene fit for Hollywood,

That the dead and hurt did nothing more,

Than action movie characters could.

I'll listen, call it mental illness.

Use it to push those drugs.

It's just as easy anyway

to get high on a legal pill,

as it is to shoot dozens dead with a tool made for war,

and blame it on whatever ill.

Weather it was your sick ego, a skewed mind,

or a misquoted old book that says one must kill.

Truth is. It's your sick toy.

Your sick toy in the hands of sick attitudes,

making it easy to snap or plan to and slay magnitudes.

And you still hold it as one of

Your precious dues.

Why?

Yet because of another old document?

Your nations Old Testament,

Made you believe a gun keeps you safe from

That just-in-case tyranny so blatant?

Don't know weather to laugh or cry

I can't even finish this.

My faith in humanity so little

My well of optimism so dry.

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