Of Guns Poem by James McLain
Of Guns
Every where I look
are guns.
Hating guns I look.
A lot of married ladies do it to.
Boldly,
some even go so far to ask.
How the gun,
fits to the contour of the holster.
Fingers in and out,
of the oiled supple leather.
Some one asks.
Other fingers,
getting stuck inside blued long barrels.
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4/19/2024 6:32:03 PM # 1.0.0.1119
