Geez!
I've only killed two bad men since this morning.
Only two.
I must be losing my touch.
Must be getting old.
Too old.
Past it.
Not in demand anymore.
No!
That's not it.
It's a Sunday, a slow day.
Just a slow day.
The priest, my first of today.
On his knee's begging and pleading to me.
To me! Of all people.
I shot him twice.
Both gut wounds.
Bleed out slowly.
No double tap in the head for you Father.
Not for what you've done.
Not for your crimes.
I waved my fee on him, did it for free.
He'll be found in a pool of his own blood.
And at the scene of many of his foul crimes.
Yeah, he'll be found.
In that children's playground.
Yeah! It's a slow day.
It'll pick up tomorrow.
It always does.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem