I picture myself with a gun
I’m taking the aim while you run
You’re bleeding around
You make a strange sound
Shut up or you’ll spoil all the fun.
I’ve chased you all over the state
So many years spent in the wait
Things fall into place
You’re losing the race
You’re finally meeting your fate.
This morning as I hit the trail
I made up my mind not to fail
This looks like a mess
But I must confess
I’ll grin on my way down to jail.
Please, don’t get me wrong: I’m not an aspiring serial killer. Although there are psychologically abusive people in my past – as in everybody’s – whom I find hard to forgive, I’m not actually planning to slay anyone. The only murder I can conceive is that committed with a pen (or keyboard). Ridicule is a more effective poison than cyanide, and doesn’t take you to court…provided you don’t mention any names, of course.