A Poor Aim

My name is Joy, and I'm in hell That's what they call my prison cell For I have killed a man, who came to take my land Papers from the bank was in his hand He found me in my patch of field Flushing crows to make them yield In a moment of despair, I fired in the air As I saw him fall, I shed no tear Whatever goes up, must come down And it might hit you to the ground If it goes up, it will come down And it might turn your life around When all is said and all is done Mine was the hand that held the gun So I will take the blame, for my lousy aim At least my land no longer he can claim