And she's beautiful
But shes crying
All she can think of is dying
Her face is as cold as the detonator she hold
But theres a tear in her eye
And I winder why, too late
Caught in a devils debate
And then this martyr whos somebody’s daughter,
Somebodys sister, maybe a mother goes
to heaven or hell, wherever they dwell; is it possible God
has a place set aside for those who have died
in his name; wherever they come from
and what they believe they all gave it all
and theres no tragety more upsetting,
than those who believed they were
getting eternal life in paradise when
in truth they're no better than us.

I have a question;
what makes 'them' different than our religious
zealots who also believed in it? That defending
your religion by slaughtering others is supposed
to give you a place in that land above us.
And its sad, and its dirty and its also three thirty
in the morning and I'm tired and I'm scared, afraid to
be prepared, and i wonder what beautiful, terrible
place could throw both sides of the coin in your face
and a decision to kill is a promise for grace.

Then the world crashes down and the King with his crown
shouts "I was right! I was right!" but theres no-one in sight
and he's alone on his regal white throne. And the woman cant postpone
it any longer; she pulls the trigger and the world ignites...