Blood on the sand Blood on the hands of a handful of madman
What a way to see the world Through the smeared window of a TV-Screen
Technicolour assasinations Assasinations that make me scared and afraid Afraid of the streets that breed malice and hatred
Those with their heads bowed to the darkness Those who can't see for the glave of the light Those without strength Who can't raise hands yet alone guns Become prisoners of concience Though not your concience
You cheer and rejoice as life trickles away Through the outlets you give in the shape of a gun