Poetry

You have some sort of gun
In your hands all the time.
You're always together as one,
Usually in a straight line.

The colours that you wear
Symbolise the filth
That makes your chats heat up like flairs,
Showing no remorse or guilt.

You believe everyone else are bowling pins,
Think you can knock them down without vain.
But you're as thick as your skin,
Don't have a brain.

You play your stupid game,
Shoot at each other's side.
Why would you bother going through this pain?
An answer's never been supplied.

For you, the days will never get older.
Because you gangsters will fall quick,
Like toy soldiers.