I sleep at night beside henry,
I bend him in two, ready to fill him up,
I know hes dangerous but he makes me feel safe,
I reach out and touch his hard wood stock,
Remembering the thrill of him shooting his load,
Peppering all that's in front of him,
Hes loud and gets in people's faces,
But when I hold him tight no one else matters,
He has his triggers, we all do,
I like to make him explode,
Then I clean him off.
Wednesday 20 September 2006
Ode to my Shotgun
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1 comment:
Chucking goats off a steeple does not a heritage make, and that's in the bible, everytime I go for a shite I don't expect to come back, however death at the hands of a lady of Spain may be a little embarrassing.
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