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.