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.