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A junkie no more than twenty-two-old sitting on the curb

Covered in his own puke

Broke and in need of a fix

He puts his hands out, begging “help fix the broken, sir?”

With the offer of food, a shower, fresh clothes and cash

He has no choice but to get in the car

Broken and in need of a fix, some days I feel like the junkie

When a man is desperate he won’t question the obvious

A man in a suit and a luxury car takes him far outside the city limits to a desolate farm

An offer to good to be true, but one you must take anyway

I can see him salivating for that cash as I lead him into the basement

In need of a fix, but you can’t fix the broken

When their body is buried in eighteen different places

To choose torture or death, a man feels no shame choosing death

Release, but the same man is quite willing to torture another than to die himself

This is your fate

At gun-point I shall make you do to others horrific deeds

Inflict more pain than anyone has ever been through

All for a chance to leave this place alive

Knowing you’re only going to go through the same (the cycle continues)