Open Season
Shooting fish in a barrel with an AK-47
Or merely tripping on the bench in the park,
Where the leather whacks on willow
And a stairway to heaven
Plays in the lost pavilion in the dark.
Cucumber in white bread with the edges curling up,
A whiff of road-kill crawling on the breeze,
How I miss your scented pillow
When the final Winter frost
Melts from off the branches of the trees.
Declaring open season on the women I have known,
A turkey shoot if ever there could be,
Yet my aim was way off centre
Crass one-liners blithely thrown,
Lucky horseshoes in the dust of misery.
Daisy chains that strangle like a razor sharp garrotte
When seemingly so innocent and sweet,
I still shiver when you enter
In your shades of reds and blues
Open season on the free and easy meat.
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