My Gun, My Gun—Holy Art Thou!
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NRA though I love you, I fear that you’re going soft in the belly and that the war for the GUN shall be lost. Rifles, pistols, assault weapons, plastic guns (for Christ’s who could stomach using such a toy!), plastic bullets (give me steel and lead please)—antiques and toys all. Give me something that really kills—for isn’t killing the game—be it rabbit or deer, bear or man, or even paper targets and tin can too die in their own way. Guns, though they are wonderful, are hardly enough. Give me grenade and bombs with which to play, missile launchers and flame throwers to ignite the night into day. Now these are killing machines, technology at its bloody best. These are the weapons to give life some zest.
As I walk along a school yard, children’s voices playfully sing a song which is so very dear to me:
My brother is a cowboy, a cowboy, a
cowboy
and this is what he said:
Bang Bang you’re dead
Fifty bullets in your head.
Sweet Jesus these children know more about life than the hand wringing NRA. Listen here, no excuses needed. Death and violence is the song so sing it clear. To hell with freedom and constitutional rights—its meat I want and meat I need and meat I shall have. Bullets, bombs and baby’s breath—give me a song hard as steel and cold as death.
The Terminator is my shepherd,
I shall not beg;
He makes the green pastures run red with blood.
He is a life hater, lover of death.
With guns a plenty,
I’ll be back!
To seek the valley of death,
I’ll be back!
With rod and staff and M-16,
I’ll be back!
My soul is inflamed,
I will be back!
I shall dwell in the house of the Terminator
Forever.
I’LL BE BACK! I’LL BE BACK! I’LL BE BACK! I’LL BE BACK...
Oh sweet refrain. Patiently I wait the messiah of death and pain.
But until chaos can be restored, my song I shall sing:
Bang, Bang, you’re dead
Fifty bullets in your head.
Where art thou Rambo when my need is so great. Exploding rabbits, killing deer, popping pigeons, punching targets—these are nothing more than appetizers. Give me WAR! Give me the pop, crack, and sickly thud—a symphony of death, steel, and lead. Let the streets run red with blood and freedom’s song resound. Let the banners of death and destruction fly... Oh where is my GUN! Give me my GUN!
My weapon oh how I live thee—let me caress thy ridged steel. Oh my weapon how I love thee—the coldness of thy steel, the hot, violent climax of the trigger pulled and the bullet penetrating, penetrating, penetrating, ever penetrating.
Keep your Kodak. Give me a Cannon. Why settle for a photo when you can have the thing’s head? I want meat—to see the flesh part from the bone. I want action and noise, the sweet satisfaction of death—if only imagined.
And those who would oppose the GUN—artistic types and environmentalists,
commies, queers and fools, castrated faggots with no guts or manly love of
cold, potent steel—I say the GUN is too good for them. They whine about animal
rights, accidental deaths, and children slaughtered. They complain about
drive-by shootings and murder in the night.
Well, let them read their romances and attend their concerts
and plays.
Let them paint their pictures and write their poems while
gentle violins play.
Let them love one another as much as they please
as long as they keep their soft fingers
off my cold, hard GUN.
The GUN is America, as much as Mom and apple pie. And those who would deny this truth are poison to me. Give me the land of the free and the brave and the culture of the GUN.
Beware my friends. Keep your power dry and weapons near. America’s heart is growing soft and fat with fear. They have already denied you your grenades and bombs, have outlawed automatic assault rifles and our lovely Thompson submachine gun. Next it will be pistols, then our rifles and shotguns, then we’ll have only spears and knives to kill with but even they will have to go until we’re left with nothing but sticks and stones. But before that time comes I shall be in my grave, my feet in my boots, my gun by my side, for they’ll never take my guns, not while I’m alive.
And down in that earth buried so deep, my bony fingers caressing my rod, I shall listen quietly so that I may hear that sweet school yard song that I love so dear:
My brother is a cowboy, a cowboy, a
cowboy
and this is what he said:
Bang Bang you’re dead
Fifty bullets in your head.
In america
I feel that someone is going
to kill me
In america
I see persons lurking among the shadows waiting
to kill me
In america
I hear my name called by voices wanting
to kill me
In america
I hear footsteps on wet pavement approaching
to kill me
In America
I crouch in a corner with nowhere to hide from those who
want
to kill me
In america
I see shadows of knives drawn
to kill me
In america
I hear clicks of guns aimed
to kill me.
In america
I hear my neighbors scream
and at night I dream of dying
in america.
As a child I thought life to be gay;
I used to put on my clown suit to play.
Other children would laugh and sing.
It pleased me to make them happy.
I am older now, things have changed.
My clown suit is worn and frayed.
The children I played with are gone.
My days are long and somehow colder.
I feel foolish alone in my clown suit.
I guess I will go off some place alone.
I shall take my suit and find seclusion.
There, I shall wonder about the world
no longer funny.
❤ ❤ ❤
