Open Season

Shooting fish in a barrel with an AK-47 Or merely tripping on the bench in the park, Where the leather whacks on willow And a stairway to heaven Plays in the lost pavilion in the dark. Cucumber in white bread with the edges curling up, A whiff of road-kill crawling on the breeze, How I miss your scented pillow When the final Winter frost Melts from off the branches of the trees. Declaring open season on the women I have known, A turkey shoot if ever there could be, Yet my aim was way off centre Crass one-liners blithely thrown, Lucky horseshoes in the dust of misery. Daisy chains that strangle like a razor sharp garrotte When seemingly so innocent and sweet, I still shiver when you enter In your shades of reds and blues Open season on the free and easy meat.