Guns aren’t bullet proof.
They’re good weapons, lousy shields.
They’ve never, ever always
Worked as those who clutch them hope.
Sometime they hit the wrong thing.
Sometimes they burst in the hand.
Sometimes they just go
Off at the worst time.
The heirs of spears and arrows,
They make the loner deadly.
They’re excellent genocide
They’re words and beliefs,
Sweet flinging machines.