Not a toy
But a gun
In the hands
Of the one
You can trust;
Yes, you must
With your all.
Then you fall:
All that trust
Up in flames
Of disgust,
As you lay
In the dust,
Someone’s son.
Not a gun
Just a toy
In the hands
Of a boy.
Now he’s dead
Cut by lead,
Burning deep.
Can you sleep
As they weep
For the loss
Of a life
That you slayed
From the palm
Of your hand?
And then killed
Him again
With a law-
Mocking pen.
Is this all
We have for
Tamir Rice?