Smoking gun,
left in my hand.
Full of lead,
laying on the land.

Glittering coppers,
strewed on the street.
Bloody rounds,
three inches in the meat.

Business end,
of a policeman's gun.
Nowhere else to turn,
no time to run.

A duel from the old west,
two lives on the wire.
One body punched to death,
by a hail of gunfire.

Breath is ebbing,
strength is too weak.
Angel of death flies over,
road to hell, I peek.

12/13/2003