Mr. Death

I make bullets for your rifles
Plastique for your bombs
Everything you’ll ever need
To do somebody harm
If you’re contemplating murder
I can help you pass the test
We could meet somewhere at midnight
You could call me Mr. Death

I don’t care what happens later
But you have to pay in cash
Make it Francs or Marks or Dollars
Wear your best disguise and mask
Religion, drugs and politics
I really do not care
If you’ve got the money brother
The merchandise is there

From the third world slums and jungles
To the desert’s holy flame
On the south side of Chicago
Everybody knows my name
If you want to hear your enemy
Breathe his final breath
Come and meet me in the shadows
Just whisper Mr. Death

We all need to make a living, boy
And mine is blood and pain
But I’m never there to see it
So your losses are my gains
Can’t hear the children crying
From my mansion so secure
If my clients keep on dying
There’s always twenty more

There’ll be patriotic hatred
With greed to feed the flame
Long as there are killers
With the right to hide their shame
The presidents and priests
Will tear their hair and beat their breasts
Then climb into a limousine
To dine with Mr. Death

‘Cause dying is a business
Just like food and steel and oil
And the masters of the food chain
Eat the profits of your toil
My customers keep lining up
With reasons in their eyes
Please don’t take it personal
Everybody’s got to die