Found a gun
lying in the short grass.
Warmed by the sun.
Bold as brass.
No one around to see
as I held it by the withered oak tree.
Just little old me
and a weird sense of glee.
Ran my hands over the butt and shaft.
Felt rather daft
to be standing right there
marvelling at the craft and graft.
How someone had made
this killing machine.
From new parts clean and keen,
made it cold, hard and mean.
Took it home under arm.
It felt like a charm.
That could do so much harm.
Didn’t raise the alarm.
thejrpc 