Fog Poem by Erin Bryce

His unforgiving egotism was naught but a normal man's dreams
Fool, I'd have shot him though the heart if I'd had the chance
From my past I've grown deaf to those screams
I sent that ingrate to join Death in a final dance

No longer will his selfishness continue to advance
''Twould ever give me pain to she the blood of a fellow creature'
Spare the theatrics. Ah, but when his heart my bullet did trance
Such foolish discourses would n'er again feature

Contemptible if true, this man was no teacher
His country would not equal my soon-to-be in game
His new religious experiences equaled that of no preacher
And with this he gained eternal fame?

An on seven-eleven in eighteen-o-four
His vile heart would beat nevermore