I need a gun, a real gun, here they come
I need a real gun, I am too young to die.
If I shoot them down then God forgive me, God forgive me
Blood-spot constellations and gun-residue will stain me
They are getting closer now, and I would lift my arm
If this gun didn't seem heavier than sin
I hear their boots on the stairs echo through my skull
I feel my ancient ancestors find the trigger and then pull
The bright white Sunday sky slowly darkens red
Shooting these illuminations far darker than dead
A skin of dust settles on the place where they stood
And a skin of dust settles on their blood