Two automatics pulsing at the end of each arm
Alternately growling,A double-Barrel shotgun held level
With each flash of gunfire,Bloody red smoke rises
From the devil's chest
Loading the barrels with shot each time
White smoke overflows from the breech
The melody playing from the guns is like a requiem
Bullet holes carved into the corpses are like offrings of
Flowers to the head
No one knows when it will end
It was a feast of Jet-Black and red