The ballad of the guns

Hear the ballad of the guns,
Of the guns, guns, guns, guns, guns, guns, guns
Of the clamour and the tumult of the guns

A man walks into a church with a gun
And kills his ex-wife with a gun
And there’s nothing you can do
And there’s nothing you can say
For she’s dead with a gun
That was Sunday.

Hear the ballad of the guns,
Of the guns, guns, guns, guns, guns, guns, guns
Of the clamour and the tumult of the guns

A man walks into a room with a gun
And shoots his girlfriend dead
With a gun
And says “Sorry” to his manager
Shoots himself in the head
With a gun
And there’s nothing you can do
And there’s nothing you can say
They’re both dead with a gun
That was Saturday.

Hear the ballad of the guns,
Of the guns, guns, guns, guns, guns, guns, guns
Of the clamour and the tumult of the guns

A car stops with the music “too loud”
A man with a gun says “Turn it down”
And they don’t
So he takes out his a gun
And shoots and kills with his gun
A teenager in the backseat
And there’s nothing you can do
And there’s nothing you can say
For he’s dead with a gun
That was Friday.

And the idiots say it’s our right
We have to be able to fight
With a gun
Should the occasion warrant it–
And we know when it warrants it–
We need to be able
To bring to the table
Our infernal arms
To quell our alarms
We need, really need
All our GUNS!

Hear the ballad of the guns,
Of the guns, guns, guns, guns, guns, guns, guns
Of the clamour and the tumult of the guns

And when they’re all dead
There’s no more to be said.

–by Rita Ann Wallace

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