I’m in my own little hell
It’s a meticulous place,
Where I get judged because of everything
From my forms of speech to my face.

When I walk through those
Double doors of death.
There’s a large bulls-eye on my back
And a whole bunch of red dots on my chest.

Its here in this white room that the firing squad
Dressed in their black robes takes aim with their guns,
And train their sights on my head
As I see from above,

They lower my noose that’ll send me
Back to the hollow existence that is
Known to you all as my life and I’m
Thinking to myself: is it life or death
Without a chance of parole?

The wooden chair is kicked from beneath
My feet and the guns go off,
As I fall and it all fades back to
Black and these lights go out.

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