Running around, and no one knows
the serial numbers, filed away
and they’ll never prove a goddamn thing
and I ain’t going back inside

Truth’s a pile of guns on the riverbed
summers that endure
as flowers on the grave
and days are purgatory instead of purpose
a forge where men are made:
knowing all this, I sleep like dreams
safe as safe houses

I number the days that I have stolen
and only firearms could ever explain
that money opens all doors
but a bullet can go through as well

You don’t go placing your faith
in blue tattoos
in leaden smoke that veils
the mark of Cain

The Chariot of Death is an unmarked van
his robes updated to knock-off Armani
reaping made easy by .45
and He will wipe away
every tear from their eyes