Monday, 6 August 2018

Shot Sighted

Pete the six-gun poet
Snipes a hot quip from the hip
In the firing line a turn of phrase
From a whiplash cutting lip
His bullet points convincing
Piercing any hard-edged shield
Where hidden la-di-das reside
Will force a high horse humbled yield 
Not a one for taking prisoners
Who hide behind the get out clause
Confronted with no hiding place
Felled by caustic pellet spores

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