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From a dead Man
They’ve come to destroy you
these hero’s of yours;
gun toting over voluptuous hors.
Was it they, who had rubies for eyes,
or I who lacked to mention the troubles of trying?
Was it her skin that played magpie on your mind,
the collection, the cream, the heist,
was it the fear of claustrophobia setting in
trapped amidst stacks of bottle caps.
Then will you grin?
Did you pay the lady, yes,
with two, two pence pieces
to rough the palms of Charons mitts?
I’ve spent my share
kicking the fleeting thing;
shoving it into the drifting sea.
I always cut the rope first site.
So was it I who had those rubies for eyes.
