Machine of pain,
Which pours blood like rain.
You helped my forefathers liberate,
You made the home I venerate.


Through wilderness and adveristy,
There are lives you defend.
But in doing so, you murder relentlessly;
Death is your inseparable bookend.


Obviously, the blame isn't on you,
Invention of human malice.
You were born of purpose which you must do;
You're no more guilty than a crystal chalice.


But I detest seeing you,
And handling you I now refuse.
I'm frightened that you may undo
My good will with the temptation of misuse.


You give me power over life.
I can take what no man can return.
It's that power I despise,
And which makes my stomach churn.


The most valuable resource in the universe,
Which cannot be bought nor traded,
Should not be deprived by a man so perverse
As to see his brother degraded.


It shouldn't be so easy.
But you make it so.
You make death quick and breezy,
Distanced only by a stone's throw.


It is surreal to have you,
And thus have accessibility to the end.
If I aimed you hither, I know it's true
I'd sleep so well I'd never wake up again.


It's not the crown itself that corrupts the king,
But rather the power it brings.
Yet the two are in practice synonymous;
No one claims the crown is autonomous.


I don't want the power of having you.
I don't trust what I may do.
With this force, I can't even trust myself,
So how on earth am I to have faith in someone else?