Mischievous Gun
We'd keep meeting wickedness
In all it's vile nakedness:
All the time, some wanton beast
Of dreamt - up foes makes a feast...
Yours was a sore cold murder
By one you'd thought a brother;
Among men a masquerade
For a promised motorcade.
He had you offered a drink,
Trusting that you would not think,
Glasses readying for clink
From his eyes a friendly wink...
Yeah, he'd wanted it that way,
For killers it makes their day,
Wherefore they would it replay:
Some mother's hair to go grey...
In the end, The Grisly done
With - what else? - mischievous Gun.
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