the problem is this,
his blood is outrunning my legs
and i’m out of breath.

i told you, son,
there is only one
conclusion to living
by the gun.

i’m sick.

the problem is this,
his blood is running down my legs
and i’m out of my mind.

it’s a hard life, in fact,
this existential balancing act
between power and gunpowder,
live or die, reload and attack.

you’re dead.

the problem is this,
my blood is running through his legs,
and i’m out of bullets.

if you’re not with me, you’re against me,
a father’s love comes with no pity
when you play with papa’s guns,
papa’s guns don’t play, timmy.

we’re fucked.