The sun is down.
The look on your face, forever a frown.
The scars on you will make you remember.
The horibble act that you did last december.
The wind is cold, like the way you slumber.
The way you did it, scarred many lives.
You give no mercy, you killed their wives.
Children, orphans and animals too.
Bow down to worship you.
Patience is not one of your virtues.
Neither is being corteous.
There you lay, in your bed of roses.
The blood in your dress, forever rises.
