There’s blood on the stair again On the wall too The faint smell of decay and skunk Drifts cutting through the BO and spoiled milk Hidden only by the grace of god And the broken lights They flicker And make reading the missing person sign An impossibility Only 21 Drugs no doubt Or some other dalliance of the young Probably dead The lucky bastard Who needs sons anyway He’s better off wherever he is Away from this spaghetti new build Sheriffless and without hope They used to say old timers Never even carried revolvers In this age I’d forgive them an armoury Maybe it was time to accept he’s gone And go out in a blaze of glory Accomplish more In a fateful last stand Than in the rest of my accursed story