He Roams The Human Wasteland His Memories Grow Dim
Shots Ring Out Loud Dispursing The Crowd Bodies Start to Fall Blood on the Wall No Time to Tell Who's Going to Heaven or Hell
The Acid Air Blurs His Vision City Crime Takes It's Toll A Metaphor For This Incision
A Truer Life Will Now Unfold No More Pain And Self Suffering It All Ends Where It Begins A Universe On This Wavelength Will Transmutate In Other Things
The Moment Comes To Eradicate A Time to Cleanse The World This Is Self Illusion This Has No Conclusion
A. 38 Hangs from His Hand His Shoulders Slung Kind of Low
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