Berlin, 2042.

Ummm...
Ok...
I Admit It!
I HATE The Ending On This One Bunt Hey!
I Can't Leave A Poem Rhyme-less Now Can I?

Berlin, 2042.


A child, with these headphones on,
A child, with his parents gone,
A child, with his pause 'n' play,
But a child, never has his way...

The bombshell rips right through the door,
Spraying blood onto the floor,

A child, to the ground he falls,
A child all around him walls,
A child, does not cry or shriek,
Though a child, never felt so weak

The smile and tears lay on his face,
His head moves to the Music's pace.

A child, does not die too well,
But a child, does not go to hell,
A child, to our God says this,
Where's my music?
Where's my bliss?