Lyrics
Like five fighter pilots,
Five flies make haste,
Towards the former scene of violence,
Senses high, eyes intent,
Antennae, alerting them…
To the smell of rotting men,
Piled at the road block,
Their destination, that,
Is their landing spot,
Whizzing and buzzing,
They signal their arrival,
Armed and camouflaged,
Waved down by the marshal.
But he’s not a marshal, he’s a soldier,
Or is he?
Maybe if he was a little older,
He’s more like a militarised child,
Machete hanging from his hips,
He’s gone wild,
Rifle in his hand he stands
With, kids and adults alike,
Armed, in uniform they’re dressed,
Other than that, There’s no difference,
Between them and the dead.
The dead-Whose blood,
Congeals on the road,
A boy lies lifeless, pale,
He’s gone cold,
Look to his feet,
His feet are missing toes,
Former friends, missing arms and legs,
Bullets lodged in their heads,
Slash marks on their necks,
They were killed,
By rebels corrupted by power,
Massacred,
In the duration of an hour.
An hour ago, the rebel raids commenced,
Thereby beginning this brutal chain of events,
Blood curdling shouts resound,
Bullets rip through the air,
Doors get knocked down,
Men, women, children, hit the ground,
Dragged out of the house,
Beaten down, hacked away and shot,
Left to die, suffer and rot on the spot,
Their carcasses heaped to form a road block,
Warning others,
Not to pass this way,
Unless it’s their wish…
To suffer the same fate.
