They cry, they moan, they grieve, they scream
It can’t be happening, it must be a dream
The shots, the panic; can’t run, can’t hide
How did he even make it inside?
The noise, the bullets, the fear, can’t move
What does he think his actions will prove?
It’s quiet, it’s stopped, can breathe, can’t walk
Stop asking questions, don’t think I can talk
The grief, the pain, it hurts, they’re lost
Need to do something, whatever the cost
We suffer, we plan, they’re buried, alone
Still have their smiles somewhere on my phone
Twitter, email, letters and calls
Protests and demos and speeches in halls
Calls to the chief from the country he runs
He’s quick to reply – the answer’s more guns!
