When the shooter comes, like we know he will,
they say it’s best to run and hide,
the wild-eyed few who stop and stare he’ll kill.
Daily we’ve watched as headlines are filled,
our names still absent from those who’ve died,
until our shooter comes, like we know he will.
No peace in crowds, there’s danger still
where every sound’s a gun triggered inside
the wild-eyed stare and wait to be killed.
At school, the mall, concerts, and clubs: a chill
persists beneath all seasons, a blood-red tide,
a shooter takes aim, like we know he will.
American soil, so soft, damp and tilled,
a graveyard for ghosts of unheard sighs,
waiting for those who’ve yet to be killed.
The powerless people keep popping their pills,
the most American version of suicide,
when the shooter comes, like we know he will,
we’ll be first in line, begging to be killed.