Then dying again,
People love dying,
They think it's a lovely thing,
Bringing tanks to the top,
Blowing peoples' heads off,
They call guns nice,
So they shoot people down like mice,
They like doing it,
Even when they get hit,
Was it supposed to be like this?
Was there something I missed?
Like avalanches of snow,
Or hurricanes that blow,
Some one tell me what's true,
I apparently don't know what's new,
But all I've noticed is the death I see,
And it's beginning to talk to me.