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