Deep in a heavy wood there is a hollow,
A clearing, a low place, dark. Far back.
Here the government hides the corpses
Of the murdered children, shot in their schools,
Stacked like wood, sorted by race and wealth.
Their many bullet holes are hidden by funeral clothes,
Their shattered skulls are covered by hats and hoods.
Uplifting music comes from hidden speakers,
And at midnight the dead children rise to dance.