Prom night and the stars glowed just for us
We danced to music we’ve forgotten now
I grew to be a killer of men, you a healer,
neither could heal the wounds of battle
life battles where blood flows in jungles,
deserts, mountains, Chicago streets and back alleys.
Seems no one can control their trigger fingers
Their lust for satisfaction
Our children like dry sticks break beneath black boots
Swastika loving boys, bald and dumb.
Now destiny is a dry urn and a clean blanket
For the final sleeping, sweet final sleep.