smoking barrel in hand, the ground is covered by magnificent light. 
i just shot an angel, it was the most beautiful thing i've ever seen. 
a clean shot to the body cavity, the wings turned to dust in a second. 
incredibly beautiful in slow mo, every color in the rainbow is emitted, 
no sound, but the echo of [bad word] of myth. 
i stand the only optimist left, not a victim, 
but pessimists destroying evangilists. 
top of the list i have, i forgot my thought, 
let me recollect, i'm distraught by the guilt, 
but yet, the beauty was so fine, 
and passionately fatal like time. 
i'm standing over if as i can see my reflection. 
i look myself in the mirror and i get an erection. 
who is the man in the mirror sleeping in the angel's dust? 
who is the man in the mirror sleeping in the angel's dust? 
would it be considered irrational to kill for the art? 
and who would be responsible for rippin' angels apart? 
do they know for what purpose they would be dying? 
in heaven, do you believe there's any angels crying? 
smoke and barrel in hand, 
i stand over top everything my society's based on. 
there's a body with wings and my face is on it. 
the situation is vague but i'm upon it. 
the torso is not human and everything around it is consumed by serenity.
the spectators even me 'cause i'm so close to the dead angel.
someone has to touch it, i'm able, can i live with the action? 
does beauty justify satisfaction for a fraction 
of the moment i was lost in the thought? 
we're shooting angels.