my cousin is in columbia
|
hunting down the rebels
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over fields of bright and shiny coca
|
|
over the jungle floor
|
one-handing a 32
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he says: “bring her down low now, I’m ready to go.”
|
|
“I hunt kids in camouflage
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rain down bullets in flight, white light,
|
barefoot boys run for your lives.”
|
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but you can’t be nice
|
you put your gun to their head
|
and you pull back the pin
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and you can’t be good
|
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my friend is based in afghanistan
|
he goes from cave to cave and pulls the trigger
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at the first sight of a man
|
|
it’s total anarchy
|
shooting tracer bullets at night
|
a high and holy patrol into poppy fields
|
|
but you can’t be good
|
you hold up the bloody knife
|
and let it shine in the sun
|
you gotta be everywhere
|
|
I’m a guard in guantanamo
|
I bring the prisoners in
|
the hoods come off and torture slowly begins
|
|
the screams I’ve overheard
|
it’d fuck up a weaker man
|
but I’m cold, I’m so untouchable
|
|
and you can’t be nice
|
I got a flak jacket
|
on my soul with me tonight
|
and you can’t be good
|
|
-----------------
|
Heated Pool And Bar
|
| John Vanderslice |
