Słowa
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He’d trade his guns for love
But he’s caught in the crossfire,
And he keeps wakin’ up,
But it’s not to the sound of birds
The tyranny, the violent streets,
Deprived of all that we’re blessed with,
And we can’t get enough, no
Heaven if you sent us down,
So we could build a playground,
For the sinners to play as saints,
You’d be so proud of what we’ve made
I hope you got some beds around,
‘Cause you’re the only refuge now,
For every mother, every child, every brother,
That’s caught in the crossfire
I’d trade my luck to know,
Why he’s caught in the crossfire,
And I’m here wakin’ up
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