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.