his blood's on your jeans
and your prints, they decorate the scene
you're thinking of the quiet south
where your mother's shoving soap in your mouth

hold the black ball
it's a bomb
with a fuse that's a mile long

let your child choke in your arms
you're all done

there's a man with gun
out on the 101
black white red blue
he's coming after you

your words are loaded and strong
crashing like a loud pop song
you'll shoot your stars at everyone
you will decide when you're done

don't worry my friend
you are the bitter end
where there's a contract waiting

wipe the sweat from the wheel
of the automobile
it's time to fear or be feared

your teachers told you, son, when you were young that you were not to ever
run from the gun

but now your hand, it hugs it tight, with open wounds that bleed all night
oh, what has been done
oh, what has to be done

and now the traffic lights
they are all blinking quickly
and your eyes won't adjust
to the dark

and men are lowerin'
another empty casket
into the quiet dirt
into the dark