Silverio Song

The Lawman's off the clock:
He's with his friends around the block;
They're cracking jokes and throwing darts—
Y'know, they've "got a hard job."

A woman hiding out,
'Cause her job ain't working out;
She gave so much, but not enough—
A stranger in her home town.

They're marching down the street
With their guns down to their feet;
They're "only here to have some fun,"
Got some "friends" they'd "like to meet."

A man shot down and killed,
A stain where his blood spilled—
He was a family man, but not to them:
Just another shot of roadkill.

And the fathers and mothers,
And sons and daughters,
Young lovers and artists,
And god-fearing workers—

They've given their lives
Just to have their lives taken
On the streets where once
They played as children

By men in masks that carry
Automatic weapons,
That pray to your God
And kill in His name.

Then they'll tell us your race,
Your language, and number.

They'll tell us your address,
Your job, and skin color.

They'll tell us you're gone,
say, "Isn't it a shame?"

And they'll kill you dead,
But they won't say your name.

The lawman's shift is done,
He's off the clock, he's driving home—
Just another day, got bills to pay—
He prays to God but worships guns.

The families gather round
A makeshift stone upon the ground:
An unarmed man in an unmarked grave
In a secret side of town.

There are crosses on the doors,
But they say one cross means more—
They'll take you as you're saying Grace—
Crosses broken on the floor.

The church is empty now,
Save for the man who sold them out:
He's reading up on Jesus' word,
And he's ripping pages out.

And the fathers and mothers,
And sons and daughters,
Young lovers and artists,
And god-fearing workers—

They've given their lives
Just to have their lives taken
On the streets where once
They played as children

By men in masks that carry
Automatic weapons,
That pray to your God
And kill in His name.

Then they'll tell us your race,
Your language, and number.

They'll tell us your address,
Your job, and skin color.

They'll tell us you're gone,
say, "Isn't it a shame?"

And they'll kill you dead,
But they won't say your name.

So, you who worship hate,
Who divine lies on golden plates,
Who brandish words of holy men,
Yet refuse to show your face,

And you that seek glory,
To put your name in history—
It surely will be jotted down
Underneath "atrocity."

And you that seek to gain
A ticket on Heaven's train—
Well, I hope you've got the time to wait:
Saint Peter's closed the gates.

And while you're outside looking in
On the place you call Heaven,
You'll see all the souls of the good folks laughing—
The joke is on you and y'know it.