Billy was a typical ten year old,
The boy never did, what he was told.
Guns were pleasure, his work, he despised.
Forever in trouble, from telling his lies.
Billy was spunky, hardcore, and bad,
Raised up by his mother, not by his dad,
He held it against her, for his dad leaving,
So Billy went wild, and no more believing.
Now, Billy knew, all about his guns,
Dad taught Billy, that they were fun.
Dad laughed, and talking, while he pulled the trigger,
Come Billy's turn, so anxious and eager.
Billy was good, when he shot his gun,
Then dad remarked, just remember son,
Watch your step, a slip of your finger,
As they laughed at life, his memory lingered.
It happened one day, when Billy got older,
He became a man, his heart, got colder,
He shot a man, without saying a word,
A remake of dad, from the stories they've heard.
Some say he died, others say he ran,
Billy was no coward, but a cold hearted man,
So many wrong doings, he couldn't erase,
He felt it was true, to fade out of place.