Leprous friend, laying weathered on the ground
Reminiscing about the days of your good run
Of an atrocity that you know not, guilty were you found
Don’t cry my friend pick up your gun.

My son, on earth there is no place of utopia
At your dawn were you told that malice you are to shun
Be it you face the unjust judicial court, let the truth be your lawyer
Cast you down they will, but pick up your gun.

Mother of my mother through your face is wry
You preach of all the days of your seasonal fun
For your pondering sleep that awaits you is sly
Kiss him Lord and pick up your gun.