I have a secret stash,
A tool box and an escape plan.
I can blend into a crowd,
Keep extra light bulbs
And a can of gasoline, a roll of tape.
There are no dull knives in the cutlery,
All the coats are on hangers,
Just in case of the drill.

When the air temp drops
I feel a hand grap my ankle.
The chance of headless horses
Clopping on asphalt afire is unlikely,
There'll be no open graves or walking dead.
The sun could blacken;
But certainly, no voice will proclaim,
In whom I am well-pleased.

It took ten thousand years
To fashion a bone hammer,
And when I passed it
I kicked it aside.