The man sits under the tree playing the guitar,

You could hear his strumming quietly from afar.

The orange ball sinks below the line,

A sunset dying could never be divine.

A cowboy walks down by the stables,

Paying his way to put food on the table.

He strokes his horse and kisses his wife,

While thinking about the revenge from his knife.

The moon rises high and the air blows cold,

Another bad night for those who have none to hold.

The whistling gets quiet as doors are slammed shut,

Sometimes you’ll hear the cry of a mutt.

Late in the night a scream was heard,

The most horrific sound not made by a bird.

The cowboy had finally done his deed,

A mission he never thought would succeed.

The man under the tree finishes his tune,

His fingers sore and shrivelled like a prune.

The sky becomes dark and the moon rises high,

How could anyone feel such a desire to die?