Оригинален текст
This is a story about a man
A short story about the violence in his hand
On automatic trigger
He aint used to taking s**t
So no ones giving it
And his egos getting bigger
Hes scarred by his own civil war
Hate he hurts the ones he hates
He hurts the ones he loves and dont care for
The reaper sleeps on his floor
Violence, violence in his hand
As a child he slept on rainy roofs
Safe from his fathers cloven hooves
And his mothers eyes of fire
They never figured out what it all meant
The fear of descent
So, rising from the pyre and the smoke
Redeemingly soaked by the rain
To wash away the pain
To loosen up the strain upon his mind
He still keeps it inside
Violence, violence in his hands