I woke up and thought I’d bought a gun,
Shiny and silver and brutish,
A dream of a doubt long since gone.

They’re strange things, our weapons,
Our guns and our swords and our dicks,

the pride we leave with them is madness,

the words we can’t say in a sitch.

That I held it in my hand scared me,

though it was a horrible thing,

all metal and bulky unnatural,

with a question on shimmering lips.

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