The Business of Death: The Untold Story of Central America


Hands with blood. Isolated on white

This is one of countless stories of children born in impoverished conditions, with little opportunity, and fearing drug gangs that compel child slaves into the deadly business of supplying recreational buzz for the wealthy few that live to the north.

A teen mother smiles, embraces her son.
Overcome by joy for his life.
Dreams of his future, she prays it is good.
Yet haunted about the business.

Boy hurries to school, he’s breathless and scared.
Not sure why the bangers gave chase.
Heard he is wanted, legs needed to run.
Just introduced to the business.

Young boy grows up, his mother grows tired.
She tries to provide for her child.
Future is unclear, good jobs are quite rare.
Hears siren call of the business.

His hope quickly fades, despair setting in.
Is thinking of hopping the Beast.
A cousin did that, he sent money back.
Far from the reach of the business.

The young man succumbs, he could not find work.
It’s easy to run for the team.
A mother’s heart breaks, the loss of her child.
Knows brutal way of the business.

He saw too much cruel, he wanted to quit.
He wished to no longer take part.
The leader said no, we can’t give you back.
Your soul belongs to the business.

His young life is gone, a corpse in the street.
Snuffed by the death angel of lead.
Could not let him live, no way to get out.
Would not be good for the business.

All the while,

North of the border, chic parties rage on.
With friends snorting blow with their friends.
The blood on the street, is stain on their hands.
Here lives demand for the business.

Still life further south, gangs stalking their prey.
Young boys are recruited to run.
The cycle repeats, vast profit of red,
flows through the veins of the business.

A dime bag of flake, its euphoric buzz.
Is more than a line with a friend.
Snow vendors supply, kids dead in their wake.
Dinero, goal of the business.

The monster has breath, its heart beat is strong.
Because of this market of high.
The neighbors up north, complicit in pain.
Death feeds its soul, it’s the business.