What Are We Gonna Do With All This Trash?: What Are We Gonna Do With All These Guns?

April 23, 2007

What Are We Gonna Do With All These Guns?

Gun maker, Gun maker
Make me a gun
'Shooting off at the mouth'
Isn't half as much fun
Gun maker, Gun maker
Look through your book
And make me a perfect gun

Gun maker, Gun maker
Just because you're law abiding
Doesn't mean you're not crazy
(And all of us are)
Put a gun in your hand
and become a star

Guns don't kill people
It's all the bullshit
Crammed down our throats
from the gun lobby's pulpit
Can you be pro-life and pro-gun
At the same time?
Kind of reminds me
Of the garrulous mime

Gun maker, Gun maker
It's not a secret
You've got limitless funds in your pocket
Gun control debates
Mysteriously vanish from the docket

Gun maker, Gun maker
Absolved from the crime
Your deal with the government
Has bought you some time
Riches in this life
Hell to pay in the next
Millions of lost souls
Are understandably vexed

Gun maker, Gun maker
"We have the right to bear arms"
How loud must you scream?
To drown out the sounds
Of yet another shattered dream

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A History Of Trash

Trash, at first, was a pretty cool guy. You know, he’d come over with some beers, and you’d hang out and have a couple of laughs. Maybe Trash brought some weed with him, and you guys tried to sync up Dark Side Of The Moon with The Wizard Of Oz until you remembered you lost your VHS copy of that movie sometime in college and that you fucking hate Pink Floyd. Good times were had, nonetheless.

But then, you don’t know what changed, but Trash started to overstay his welcome. He’d just linger for hours, never taking the hint you wanted him to leave, no matter how many times you yawned obnoxiously or mentioned how early you had to get up tomorrow. Trash just didn’t get it. You were getting older. You didn’t have the time anymore to stay up until 3 a.m. to talk about the Port season of “The Wire” or how much you miss Jawbox. Eventually, you just stopped taking Trash’s phone calls and no longer replied to his group e-mails about sneaking into abandoned mental hospitals.

Last time you saw Trash, he was smoking alone outside a local dive bar, looking down at his decaying and mismatched shoes. You hoped he had been doing well. You hoped he had not been hurt by the disintegration of your friendship. And if he had, you wanted to comfort him. You wanted to tell him that even though people move on with their lives, it doesn’t mean they stop caring. You wanted him to see in your eyes a sincere appreciation for the time you shared, because all the relationships in our lives help make us who we are, and even if you weren’t the best of friends anymore, you wanted him to know that there would always be a piece of Trash in your heart.

But instead, you looked away and crossed the street. You were with your new girlfriend, and you really didn’t want to have to explain Trash to her. She’d never understand.