Rapt before the sky. Stealthy stingray stings him old school; sharp barb to point. Crikey croc rules! No sound from the bloodless khaki depths.
Mission statement, full of lies, as sad solstice strums the edge of the mud wall compound and vineyard. Shrapnel reigns. Death from above is a so-called friendly miscue. Apologize; it's alright. Bungle, bungle, buzzed bomber loves that word - sorry, my bad!
You dead? Bleeding red and white? Where's the blue? Get blue, soldier! Just a game, dude. Get another guy, another recruit, another dupe? To kill is to live; to live is to kill. Here's some speed, here's some vicodin, some rohypnol, and testosteroni. Raise a drink to a deathless crimson day, raping good conscience in name of righteousness. They asked for it, she asked for it - same difference.
You better stick to bombing the brown people then; no one cares about the brown people. Ask Kanye.
Right to the heart and gone.
