I'm the sin, the very thing
that you refuse to believe in.
The solution to your problem,
the final step to cold, red redemption.
My hands act under your command,
my mind yours to dictate and bend.
All I ask, is you pay well, and I'll act
as is required to finalise our pact.
If you require death directed upon someone,
I can supply death, to whomever: the old and young.
I will leave no trace whilst efficiently killing them
however difficult it might be, I can solve your problem.
You might not like me, you may hate the act,
all I ask, is that you pay me for my tact.
If you summon me, need me, you're as bad as me,
but you can blame me; I only want the money.
I am both a solution and a murderer,
the dark part of man's mind that most fear.
I do that which other's can't handle, I am the weapon,
the people whom pay me, are the users of my lethal orientation.
Who's the most evil, I or my users,
I care little as long as I have pounds, euros, dollars...
A poem about a cold hard assassin whom cares for nothing more than money.