The Child with the Gun

There he sits,
Alone in the dark,
Staring into space,
Pondering his life.

All the lives he took,
With the knife,
With the rifle,
Each day a new one gone.

He hunted the men,
To gain his freedom,
From the opressors,
That ruled them all.

He wanted his home,
Away from his country,
Where kids were thought,
As disposable objects.

Used to kill,
And used to fight,
To destroy and mangle,
All their foes.

Just sit and wait,
As the time rolls by,
And watch as death,
Crosses a child's path.

The killings, the names,
"Jack the Ripper,"
Was this one's name,
"The Slaughterer" too.

He killed them all,
In burning rage,
To save his friends,
Or so he was told.

They are his friends,
Behind enemy lines,
Fighting for freedom,
From visions of death.

As the child runs,
Through smoke and flame,
He hears a cry,
"It's him! He came!"

The Child with the Gun,
Was here to stay,
In the dirt forever,
As they cut him down.