Can you picture a little boy, dragging wood down the 
lane?
Grandma waiting for him brother, playing outside in the 
rain
Wishing it all to end
enraged by the slaughtering
thoughts explode like my heads a grenade and I drawed 
the pin
talking to men with one choice to run off or defend
must punish the win, gotta let that gun off for ya kin
the only laws is 'no laws at all' once it begins
from the smell of blood violence is absorbed into their 
skin
and the thoughts of kids caught up should torture 
people to death
now freedoms with them see if them orphans see any 
sense
Can you picture a little boy, dragging wood down the 
lane?
Grandma waiting for him brother, playing outside in the 
rain
Each day we hear the score, before not after shots of 
war
And the road to him is love, but the love is never more
Not all true pictures of war are drawn in the news
so we painted a little more like George Gittoes do
jaded because we didn't hear them calls coming through
how we'd savor our days if we had to walk in them shoes
countries can't build without support for the youth
they lost when their most important resources abused
forming our views, and not picking up on the clues
inner-city blues stop many from listening to the clues
voices on mute, so we whisper this to you
no time for school, many children be enlisted to be 
troops
and we walk , thinking that the system got us screwed
like we taught ,just to keep a short distance from the 
truth
when scores...are born only to be drifting to a noose
where they gone well say , lord forgive we never knew
gotta question why many, got there scriptures 
misconstrued
and why spending on weapons and not assistance is the 
rule,
Can you picture a little boy, dragging wood down the 
lane?
Grandma waiting for him brother, playing outside in the 
rain
Each day we hear the score, before not after shots of 
war
And the road to him is love, but the love is never more
We're caught up in the pictures that they have shown us
and not the millions of innocents that been blown up
cold hearts disconnecting us from our own blood
for their objectives its best that they blindfold us
Can you picture a little boy, dragging wood down the 
lane?
Grandma waiting for him brother, playing outside in the 
rain

We're caught up in the pictures that they have shown us
and not the millions of innocents that been blown up
cold hearts disconnecting us from our own blood
for their objectives its best that they blindfold us
Can you picture a little boy, dragging wood down the 
lane?
Grandma waiting for him brother, playing outside in the 
rain