A Mourning Shot
by Keith D Brinson
Monday, September 02, 2002
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The whippoorwill sings joyfully to another
A baby brown thrasher runs to its mother
The sun flicks playfully against the trees
The happiness outside, little Johnny can’t see
Johnny couldn’t get the water in,
So he fiddled with the firing pin,
As Johnny played, he didn’t figure,
No water’d come as he pulled the trigger!
Now, laying still upon his daddy’s bed,
Johnny just banged a bullet through his head!
The smoldering gun once concealed beneath,
Is matted, with the blood upon the sheet!
And though the sun shines into the room
It can’t pierce this horrors gloom..
Johnny’s not a killer, nor the gun,
But Johnny’s dead, his parents little son!
“Lock Your Weapons Up”!