LAMENT OF A TRAINED KILLER.

Double time. Left. Left. Left right. Left

As I raise you to my eye,

I never stop to wonder why,

I hear voices start to cry.

With pain.

View my target through the sight,

make adjustments for the light,

put myself into the fight.

And hurt.

For a moment I’m insane,

I no longer feel the shame,

just the pulsing of the rain.

And fear.

From the barrel to the butt,

with one eye tightly shut,

as the U.N. blindly tutt.

We wait.

A second’s lonely tick,

then your mechanisms click,

I am winded by your kick.

Again.

Unmatched in precision,

shiny metal makes collision.

They call us Death Division.

Another paper person has a bullet in his ten

point

head.