I stare at the lifeless bird, one which i shot
No more will it take flight, or welcome the sun
Not a hunters hands these are, lest you think;
I'm just a torch bearer to the sins of our Fathers.
The family looks on as we bulldoze their memories
A bleak future on their eyes, Ray-Bans on mine
Rummage through the rubble, while my palace will rise
Its more than good business; these are the sins of our Fathers.
I hear the muffled wails of my beloved
Shaken and bruised, like a cornered animal
She courted an illusion, while i hid the real me,
In her place was my mother, and i repeat the sins of our Fathers.
I see my son, the junior one, chasing hares in the garden
He scratches his mane and claps his hand in glee; toothless grin
"And what legacy will he carry good sir?", points the Bard
Snuggling a gun among his tiny fingers, i say: The sins of our Fathers.
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