Charlton Heston’s Gun
Any small town in America
Where narrow minds can meet
Will witness the tired spectacle
Of folks voting with their feet
The flag sellers making money
In a patriotic boom
As the buyers wear the T shirts with pride
Whilst howling up at the moon
And the wandering forgetful father
Says he can’t call a stranger son
I have little in life to go on he says
But I have Charlton Heston’s gun
It brings a sense of power
And evokes a sense of fear
He likes to see people cower
Whenever he gets near
The problem is compounded
By those that think the same
The right to bear those arms
Shows the tattoos of the lame
And the mother of the lost
Weeps for the battle never won
And she’s counting up the bodies
Killed with Charlton Heston’s gun
A man who embraces bullets
Is a man who can’t debate
He searches for enemies to shoot
But it’s himself he really hates
A gun can’t gather dust
It has to keep its shine
A mind that’s turned to rust
Will always be inclined
To look for a shallow reason
To fire a shot at anyone
The law is a poor excuse
For Charlton Heston’s Gun.
SJ©2010
