The Junkie Poem by norman hale

With gun in hand
He walks into the bank
He's needingt his fix
And he don't have time to think

He walks up to the teller
And then demands the cash
He has no idea he's on camera
Or how his world is about to crash

The teller gives him some money
But he's already too late
He don't even care
Outside those doors stands his fate

As he walks past customers
He waves his gun all around
As soon as he goes through the doors
He is instantly dropped to the ground

A sniper from across the road
Shot him through the thigh
With other cops waiting, they take him in
All he can think of where's his next high

They get his leg patched up
And he's locked up in jail
But not for very long
A bonds-man pays his bail

So he's back on the street
Just to repeat it all again
It all boils down to a crying shame
For the next time he may kill a friend

No matter who they are
They can't be brought back
He'll still get his one more fix
Just for the system to give him slack

Guns don't kill people, people do
Man will always find a way to kill
Whether it is through rage
Or just for some kind of thrill

Trace it back to the caveman
They simply killed with a rock
For much of the same reasons today
So why blame everything else, or go into shock