The Old Kalashnikov


The sewer’s wet and dark and damp,
And reeks of shit as well,
The Rook’s complaining close behind,
Moaning ‘bout the smell,

They can’t be that far up ahead,
Through the stench I say,
Checking skyward openings,
For signs they went that way,

The rats below about our feet,
They scurry to and fro,
As we trudge onwards through the pitch,
T’ward what, we do not know,

Our flashlights paint the slickened walls,
A quite repulsive swash,
A huddled shape rests up ahead,
Near an old Kalashnikov,

His fellows lay there, all around,
Floating in the waste,
The crime scene tells us nothing,
Except the murders haste,

Each corpse we find a single hole,
Graced upon their head,
The deal went bad, these bodies say,
Evidence in the dead,

Alphonse is nowhere to be seen,
The bodies aren’t his guys
He has the stash and money too,
’Tween thieves there’s only lies.


~ by Joseph Blame on March 28, 2011.

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