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Pistol
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Poe'ten'ry [poems of ten lines] The iron-made pistol doesn’t know,
Who to hit, who to let go!
To hit the target it is born,
It earns both appreciation and scorn.
A pistol saves life and snatches one too,
It is wild and arrogant so,
Just like the ferocious tiger,
Carnage is its solemn desire.
If we need to keep pistols or not,
It is just another grave thought!
