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many people in war but few fight it, we are the ones from below who enter the burning and the one who blinks is the one who loses his mind.
sheets of meat I shelter among the dead we bury the one who sent it and the living one is still in his position, my school, violence trained me, a mercenary, my father was a big boss and I grew up among hitmen, my innocence was corrupted, I was baptized by the devil himself.
with a backpack, a backpack full of shots, a pencil for a rifle and a poem I don't blame teachers for not learning from their books, extreme society because you applaud talent where your children's hero is the one who knows how to use a horn. Death is mischief in the hands of a child. You want to play war here. Everything is allowed, we are children of war, everyone is welcome