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Two Horsemen
The best in the west
Crests the hill, make way, lest
He blows a hole in your chest.
Don’t test his patience, unless
You desire to be undressed
As patients, and blessed
At the golden gates as guests.
The beast from the east
Is least liked, like infectional yeast.
His black hat creased, revolver greased.
On any poor soul he’ll release
His fury, so don’t even tease.
‘Cuz your father won’t be pleased
To see you beg and plead pitiful pleas.
Were the two figures to cross paths,
They would each figure the maths,
And see, each leaves behind bloodbaths.
Rivers of souls in their wakes, the aftermaths
Of carnage, pray they don’t combine wraths.
An epic clash, that singular hope, is all one hath.
