No One’s Sending Roses

Dreamer, poet, executioner
His fingers hold a sliver of Damascus steel
He plays the big wheel
I'm not talking in inches
A slug bites in close to his brain
No indication of pain
Blue smoke feathers from his mouth
He just pulled the trigger again

Dead as dust, rub out
The combination opened fire
Grease the wheels to a house on the hill
They won't get far
I put a tack in each tyre
A cache of "nostrils"
Japan made the get-a-way car
The werewolves are getting loaded
With silver bullets in the bar
Wipe away that tear
It's poetic justice
You have nothing to fear
Only poets and justice

Fingerprint experts and camera-men
Crawl slowly up his leg
Murder plays no favourites
Hang your halo on the peg
No one's sending roses
The curtains have been drawn
He died with a dash of lavender
The vigil ends at dawn
When they turn the lights out on you