Sir: The origins of the almighty Second Amendment are steeped in the overriding goals to eternalise the institution of slavery, and perpetuate a permanent slave class. Arguably, without slavery the Second Amendment would lack a raison d’etre.

There is a through-line from the atrocities of the Atlantic slave trade, to the proliferation of guns in the U.S. and its concomitant pariah status, as a “guns over people” state.

The nation is defined and characterised by run-amok gratuitous gun violence. Adhering to true capitalist dogma and practice of promoting profit above people, American gun manufacturers and their equally soulless, lobbyists and lawmakers, will keep the spigot of gun sales gushing to past-super-saturation levels. Their abhorrent hustle will countenance nothing else; resulting in increasingly recurring sickening scenes of carnage and orgiastic bloodletting. This behemoth of nations is self-cannibalising.

It’s not the children’s fault. They are all victims of a degenerate and calcified, sick system. My poem encapsulates concomitant issues and emotions, of the dastardly phenomenon:

Behold the ugly face and character, of a ruling, advanced civilisation A horrific, gruesome look at the world’s most powerful, favoured nation Guns do not kill, people do! Silly, putrid double speak
Despicable, damnable and destined for the dungheap.

Children, tossed live into the cruel, fiery furnace But chered and shredded bodies; lacking any traces of cherubic, darling faces

Come, clutching your shattered psyches and DNA: Claim your babes-in-arms
As we parade an array of free social services, designed to outwit, trick and charm.
Oh! what vile subterfuge and depravity so low
Its all about the corrupt power and filthy cash-flow
Thoughts, prayers and wicked tears of acid rain
From vile, venomous, leaders and cruel merchants of death, who can feel no pain.
Children! flailing, sinking humanity’s future, glory and hope.
Sold out, ditched, betrayed by monsters high on lethal political dope.
Promising, rosy souls, trusting hearts, unsullied minds, innocent eyes.
Truncated, cut-off and unable to live precious, prized, priceless lives.
Shining brightly as part of heaven’s panoply.
Countless Novas that outshine entire galaxies.
Each a rare, brilliant, beautiful gemstone.
Their sacrifice calls for American society writ-large, to answer for and atone.
There is a special place reserved in hell.
For all who remotely line up to ring, ‘it’s time to die,’ school bells.
Beware! For your corrupt, bloody, earthly passage, has finite days.
And the angels of these babies, look on God’s face: So my Bible says.

Irene Fowler is a lawyer.