Blood on the sand  Blood on the hands  of a handful of madman  What a way to see the world  Through the smeared window of a TV-Screen  Technicolour assasinations  Assasinations that make me scared and afraid  Afraid of the streets that breed malice and hatred  Those with their heads bowed to the darkness  Those who can't see for the glave of the light  Those without strength  Who can't raise hands yet alone guns  Become prisoners of concience  Though not your concience  You cheer and rejoice as life trickles away  Through the outlets you give in the shape of a gun  Our world is slipping quickly away