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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
What can be said about the moral compass when a life equates to nothing more than a dollar sign?

Submitted: June 16, 2017

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Submitted: June 16, 2017



It's never nuanced when I fire from the five pound hand cannon,

may the bodies fall into the Olympic sized canyon.

It doesn't make me happy, but it doesn't make me sad either.

An over compensated reaper in a leather jacket, the life of an honest cop

well in truth, my conscience just couldn't hack it.

I'm only happy when the cobalt blue steel is handy, make silent the louds

and make fast the slows, but only the money and blood flow.

I have so much love and compassion for all nine inches, that it's attached to my hip

not only used as a paper weight, but too make a fashion statement.

If this were the old west, well there would be a showdown everyday or every night,

but since it isn't, just know that I take great pleasure in the luxury of those iron sights.

My volition, as well as my vest is bullet proof, but I'm not, those living bounties may get me

or the ghost of the now ceased gun might. But it won't be the bottle or the noose knot.

Long live the bullet, we shall die by the gun, sooner or later my last sunrise will have came and gone.


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