I was birthed upon the edge of a knife I was tossed into the sunset I was lit up with life And the words They came to me in a breath I focused on the paper And my hands did the rest It's a fictional conquest A “meeting of the minds” I find it's harder to embrace The places People left behind So give me time To write right rhymes Maybe go blind Survive from the signs Between the lines Just give me time Just give me time Stop---pop Drop--lock Crop dust the photographs Their epitaphs will summarize The men behind the autographs I gasp at the nonsense Curse the death of innocence If life is just a casualty Then what's the price of tolerance? A nuke between the eyes The right to question operations To partake and celebrate Annihilation of a nation From the inside out Slide the blindfold from the masses Classes teaching us to open our minds At the same time Steering us one way To make us afraid Of making statements Outlines on the pavement To chronicle the veterans Who saw the way the world went Way back when When the men wore the medals of war And the only badges brandished Were the scars and the score Rapping over soldiers Three two one None in a million A number too high to count Three fathers and their children Killing renegades They should be at promenades Dancing with their sweethearts But they're clutching on to hand grenades Look at our babies Fighting for the luxury To be the branch of liberty That murders systematically But I don't know this I haven't been there I haven't bled Haven't died Haven't prayed there Notching days on a bunk-post While hoping that foremost My best friend’s not the one They found collapsed in the compost Tomorrow’s sorrow builds up ‘til my Heart's completely filled up And the will to pull the trigger's Gone though I know it's instilled up into me The irony moves me And I feel it through me The music that soothes me Can’t you hear the drum set? The hum of the corvette Bullshit on the internet Isn’t it enough yet? Rapping over soldiers Three two one None in a million A number too high to count Three fathers and their children Killing renegades They should be at promenades Dancing with their sweethearts But they're clutching on to hand grenades Three two one