Lead flies faster than logic, reason or life.
Gunpowder dreams in technicolour.
The Bond films spiral's your home,
And Rambo's your saviour and master.
You live the dream in the crosshairs of fate,
You aren't D-Fens, and you're not Falling Down.
The set has no towers, no martyrs.
The script is a camera shot away.
Rationalize the right all you want,
Cocooned in generations of frontier independence.
The burdens of life are all captured,
The burden's of life: you're captured.
Sterilized legacies come out to corrupt you,
As a miasma of legislation and choices
Ridicules you in the blackest of mirrors.
You will never bow, straight as an arrow.
But you may snap, and you may stray.
Even a terrorist is another man's hero.
You may yet be the cuckold on CNN.
No matter the reasons, the picture's there.
You pose with a gun, you look like a psycho.
That's how it looks in the flash of the press.
That's how it reflects in "He was a quiet one."
That's how the Dead Man's Hand is played.
