I grew up hunting with my father In a little mountain town not far from here When I turned six he gave me my first rifle I was eight years old when I killed my first deer
Dad said I had an itchy trigger finger We needed meat and I had steady aim But if I could not kill an animal cleanly I'd give it up and never hunt again
Somehow I barely made it through high school I dreamed about escaping every day I couldn't see me working at the prison I joined the Army just to get away
The mountains of Iraq felt like my hometown The valleys and the ridges looked the same I knew that I was born to be a soldier I figured it was just like hunting game
I saw him in my scope across the valley I squeezed the trigger slowly and he fell But in that moment I felt something breaking And my immortal soul went straight to hell
The Bible says it is a sin to murder I figured that in war it was all right But always in my dreams I see him falling His blood soaks my pillow every night
The doctors say that I'm just post-traumatic They tell me that with time the mist will clear But they don't understand the things that happen When you can't tell a person from a deer
Some nights I dream I'm hunting with my father Some nights I dream they've sent me back to war Dad said I had an itchy trigger finger So I cut it off and I will hunt no more,