I wish that I could use a gun.
First caught when I was ten, I stood
Too scared to breathe, too sick to run
And wondering why I stole for fun.
They stole my brain “for my own good”:
I wish that I could use a gun.
I drink and fumble, joke and pun.
I manage, if misunderstood.
Too scared to breathe, too sick to run.
I fumbled once near Earth’s old sun:
Blake fired, you fired, as you should.
I wished that I could use a gun.
I let it fall there where it spun.
I wished for clubs of ancient wood.
Too scared to breathe, too sick to run.
And here I hide from you. I’m done.
My epitaph “Did what he could”.
Too scared to breathe. Too sick to run.
I wish that I could use a gun.
