Can you hear the crimson drops?
They kiss the ground, with gentle plops.

With pools of red, and a grin on my head;
The bodies fall, another is dead...

All the sounds, and the dark red clouds;
"For all that I've done, why aren't you proud?"

With bursts of hate, my face streaked with red;
'I' slash and slash, until they are dead.

It may look bad, What I have done;
For 'I' was the one, who fired the gun.

I assure you, revenge it was not;
For it was the other, who fired the shots.

They did it for fun, with a grin on their face;
And I'm the one, who's called a disgrace...

They can't fight back, the urge to kill another;
To see another body, torn slowly asunder

I feel much regret, for what 'I' have done;
So one last time, I'll fire the gun.