How many times have you shot this rifle?
It rests on you like a young lady asleep on your lap.
Occasionally, she hops in her slumber
and you think (hope) maybe she is dreaming of me.

This pretty pretty thing, her barrel spread like a
dress upon the petticoat’s pillow:
so tempting and so prepared for your touch.

You think of her so much
and spill your own blood just to have her bullet hid

                     where she could see your love.