Pull the trigger, take a hit,
poison drips from fingertips,
each pill shimmers upon the floor,
a deadly grip if taken more.

Casing lined in gold or silver,
with each hit, it takes a sliver;
a busted brain, a mangled heart,
they knew the risks from the start.

A curtailed cry, cut short goodbye,
two bullets settle in throat and thigh;
eyes rolled back in a glassy stare,
lips pulled apart, a forbidden pair.

Pull the trigger, take a hit,
blood runs red from fingertips,
men resting silent upon the floor,
the chamber clicks to silence more.

sperrys on his feet, frost on his head; you cross his path; now your dead!
Words in his mouth, eye can never keep count... He needs to cool out!!!
Rider for me: even though we don't agree, he's a shooter for the Queen! As it shall always be!!!!!

My geeteeaye shooter, ain't nothing cooler!