Addendum enroute as you replied to attack-on-children post
(I confess that there resides in a closet: a small SS (Chief's Special?) 5-round .38). Having resisted an impulse to band-saw the sucker--that was well-before the crumbling of the Murican-mind(-set) became manifest and indubitable.
Sawing it up now would be more a testimony to having failed utterly to grok-to-Fullness our predicament: liff in an incipient full-blown-Fascist milieu.
cf. Manfred
I possess the 'First Complete Recording' of this sorta 'Tone Poem'; Sir Thomas Beecham, 'Bart' Conducts.
Music: Robert Schumann
Text: Lord Byron, "for Actors, Soloists, Chorus and Orchestra"
Excerpt: As the Protagonist is nearing death (having failed in his attempt in the Nether-world to free the lovely Astarte), a Priest attempts to 'console' him.
Manfred ripostes, Old Man, it is not so hard to die..
(I treasure those few seconds of dialogue ..and hope to emulate same on any similar occasion :-)
BANG! ... BANG! (oft accompanies Carrion of all flavors of dementia)
..but it can beat-all-hollow: ovine concupiscence to any demented-Authority yet spawned.
cf. The Warsaw Ghetto Uprising?
It's 2019: we're ~There. Depending-still: entirely upon ____ local-Guts: present? or cowering.
('Course too, we geezers have less to lose), having inhabited this Disaster-State since shortly after gestation;
I mean: Who knew? The adults/unvaryingly told us Lies, sang the anthems and--mainly--bought more Stuff. On autopilot.
(While Someone? held that hidden track-ball in "Full-ascend" mode--guess anti-gravitas did the rest. :-)