Fifty five thousand flying lights,
Fifty five thousand souls that fight.
Fifty five thousand colors rise,
Fifty five thousand brave soldiers die.
How beautiful they once were,
Was it a waste or was it a cure.
Leaving behind a path of clouds,
The crowd cheers at death aloud.
Killing to achieve god's will,
All to be the city on a hill.
Right to Bear Arms
Guns aren't bad, people are.