Beneath the calm
Of moonlit leaves,
Lying lovers
Shoot the breeze.
When in the moment
Of the mode,
Between the rhythm
Of stride and strode,
Shoot off your mouth
And not your load.
Corner thugs
Will deal you drugs
To smoke or snort
Or mainline shoot.
It's a slippery *****
Of lost freewill,
The up is high,
The trip's downhill.
You're in the cross hairs;
Drugs shoot to ****.
The shooter feigns
Heeding advice,
So craps himself
On loaded dice.
The lawyers grin
Without remorse;
They shoot your savings
Throughout divorce.
The pool hall hustler
Cues his cool,
Looking for
A snookered fool.
Naively, when the children play,
Yell, “Ah shoot!” instead of say,
“Ah ****.”
We say that's okay.
Like saying, “****!”
When they can.
It's in the Bible, see?
Sports Illustrated
Puts out a shoot
Of photoshops
In skimpy suits.
When we say
We shoot meat,
Do we stalk roasts
On city streets;
From our hide
On city blocks,
Do we crossbow
Down our chops;
Do we rope *******,
Then use buckshot?
It's euphemistic,
A rich spadeful:
"We shoot 'em all,"
And that's no bull.
Except chickens. We ring 'em.