swat a fly or two.
Breathe, if you are able.
The next trauma awaits you...
Room number one
was bitten by a gun,
and complains of feeling cold.
His heart barely sounds;
he's forty-five pounds.
We think he is nine years old.
Wipe the bloody table.
The next trauma awaits you...
Room number two
may just have a flu.
She's a foreign correspondant
for a Fox News crew
She saw the devastation;
couldn't take the situation.
Misplaced her medication,
and wants something new.
Children of the villages growing too small.
UN Peace-keepers waiting in the hall.
Pus-covered instruments making skin crawl.
Such pestilence and guns, the world can't see all.
Breathe, if you are able.
The next trauma awaits you...
Room number three
is something to see.
Aren't they from your tribe?
The hut they kept
was torched as they slept.
And they need a place to hide.
Wipe the bloody landscape;
swat a fly or two.
Swallow all your heartache;
the next trauma awaits you...
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