Real

I am begging to believe that papa lied
when he placed his warn hand upon my fresh skin
and said "Aw darlin, The wicked witch isn't real."
Cause I can hear her cackle over those hills
and when i arrive on the other-side
the bodies, the casualties,
her victims
will be there.

Am i monkey with wings,
or a dwarf that sings?
Does it make a difference once you're in?
What kind of life will grow here once this death is but the past?
What will my daughters eyes, hands, laugh now teach me
when i get back?
Will any of these questions

keep me alive?
 

I am tryin to be blind
in honor and pursuit. My head
held high to keep the comandor's pride,
But still I pray this gun, gaining weight
with each hill climbed,
may it's barrel be destined to always
face the ground.