I need a gun, a real gun, here they come I need a real gun, I am too young to die. If I shoot them down then God forgive me, God forgive me Blood-spot constellations and gun-residue will stain me They are getting closer now, and I would lift my arm If this gun didn't seem heavier than sin I hear their boots on the stairs echo through my skull I feel my ancient ancestors find the trigger and then pull The bright white Sunday sky slowly darkens red Shooting these illuminations far darker than dead A skin of dust settles on the place where they stood And a skin of dust settles on their blood