Wrong

If there is a god then hear my cry;
For every white man, black man, yellow man and red,
There will always be another two that are dead
While their lovers and mothers ask why.

Haters and traders,
All apart of this masquerade we dance to-day.

It is all just a game we play
Where we bury our lives in emotionless craters.

The poor and the hungry,
The sick and the wealthy.
The pieces on your board of shame.

One pace is your roll and there goes your home,
From a drunken old man is how this story goes.

Two the dice shows but before we all know
The barrel is showing but a faint glow.

Three can it be is an end with no glee;
He died from cancer inside his body.

Four is the score that this man must settle,
Raging war against the gods on earth.


Now you, if you exist;
Then you cower behind every rich-mans spit.
Laughing and eating upon what has come to be.
This for you a sport that is brought unto me.