They work in an outdoor furnace
Under the blazing sun
Harvesting the cocaína
For the drug lords
Whole families enslaved
Children held hostage by the fear
That what happened to
A mother, father, uncle, friend, sibling
Could happen to them
And with a burst of machine-gun fire
It’s easy to get them through customs
They’re just little kids
Then they’re taken to a warehouse
Or tenement to wait
For their systems to pump out
The plastic-encased drugs
Smuggled into the country
Inside their bodies
She stood in the middle of the road
Seemingly unaware
Of the danger she was in
But when the truck stopped
The Iraqis opened fire
Having used the innocent
To bait the trap
For the convoy
He sat in the chair
Unmoving,
But moved
Tears on his face as he considered:
To tell the truth
And let justice prevail
Or refuse to snitch on
The friend he's known since they were two
And feel as guilty as if he'd
Pulled the trigger himself
His conscience
Just another gangland casualty
In a drive-by spree
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