The Fight.

I got in a fight,
with a drunk in Detroit,
in a bar back in '72.
I spent the whole night,
in a jail locked up tight,
just to learn me a lesson or two.

Since then I've been clean,
I've never done mean,
and that's still just my only offense,
Now I got me a wife,
and my kids are my life,
I've never done nothin' wrong since.

I pay all my taxes,
I hardly relaxes,
'cause I picked up a second job too.
I built my own home,
and in church I'm well known,
I hike and I fish and canoe.

I also got guns,
now the trouble beguns,
'cause I thought I still had me my rights.
A knock on my door,
at a quarter to four,
in the morning when it's still dark as night.

The cops stroll on in,
and treat me like sin,
and demand that I show them my guns.
With Glocks in my face,
they ransack my place,
for my guns and they take every one.

They hand me a note,
from some judge who done wrote,
"Your guns are to be confiscated."
I got no recourse,
from the State's use of force,
'cause my guns are so now very hated.

They dug in their files
for trivial trials,
and found the scuffle I had in Detroit.
Now my guns they all seize,
with incredible ease,
there's no limit to what they'll exploit.

I live in a land,
where the guns will be banned,
they're just waiting for any excuse.
To come to your home,
and rummage and roam,
taking guns while your rights they abuse.

I can move out of State,
but they'll never abate,
they just spread across our great land.
Soon our right of defense,
will be in past tense,
'cause the sheeple just don't understand.

Our right to bear arms,
is loosing its charms,
they don't care about the most basic right,
to protect your own life,
and your freedom from strife,
so for that, I must once again fight.