What was it like, that morning in Spring?
Drove in as usual, parking OK?
Met with your buddy, everything ready?
How did it feel knowing This Is The Day?
None of the guys who were sat in school diner
knew what you carried under your coat.
What did you think as you put down your rucksack
under the table? Did you note
which of those jocks in their usual places
sneered down their noses or jeered you again?
You'll wipe the grin from their silly faces.
They won't be smiling when
your bomb explodes. Those cock-sucking jerks
all deserve what they get. And if they survive
the blast, then you're ready to give them the works
when they crawl from the hall. Your gun will contrive
a suitable welcome and splatter their brains
all over the floor. But then nothing happened.
Weren't you just gutted it didn't go off?
Did you perhaps feel a bit of a failure?
Time to assert yourself, stroll round the school,
look in the classrooms, shoot a few dead,
get me a nigger - that would be cool,
snuff a few bitches - better than bed.
You were The Man with the gun in your hand,
watching them cower, fear in their eyes.
Did you enjoy their pathetic pleading,
you with the power to say who dies?
One in the corridor, two in that classroom,
this one they've locked - well there's plenty more yet.
Don't they look stupid ducked under the tables?
Come out, you fuckers, I ain't broken sweat!
Power intoxicates. Pity? What's that?
Death is so simple, a twitch of the finger.
That fucking teacher who thinks he's a hero
got a surprise - now he's more like a zero.
Was it as good as you thought it would be
or did it pall once you'd killed a few?
Probably what you wanted was fame
so hard luck, pal, I've forgotten your name.
Did you achieve what you wanted to do?
You certainly showed them you weren't such a prick.
Now everybody can see the real you -
a nasty stinking pile of shit.
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