You say ignorance is bliss,

but sometimes it’s the hiss of a gun

being reared up with thick bullets

waiting to be fired into the neat, pretty, white holes

of tasty empty heads.

Such a pretty victim, such an easy one.

But just you wait, for the blood to run down those outer city streets,

until they trail right into your home.

But they all say how juicy it is

when you get to the bone.

Such delicate marrow for teeth to sink into

as cries blow outwards.


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