I put the muzzle against my head,
In a moment I could be dead.
That depends upon my luck,
Not that you would give a fuck.
Today was a distressing day,
So I figured I would play,
Roulette of the Russian kind,
By myself, not that I mind.
Six soft-nose bullets in a line,
On the table with red wine.
I chose the one that shone the most,
Chamber one then played its host.
I gave the cylinder quite a spin,
And wondered briefly if I’d win.
Eh, who cares? I gave a shrug.
My grave already has been dug.
I put the muzzle against my head,
The steel cold, like silken thread.
I cocked the hammer back with ease,
Then gave the trigger a firm squeeze.
A click, a shudder dulled by skin,
Then realization did set in:
Ha! I really coulda died just then.
What the hell, let’s go again! 

I spun the cylinder again with glee,
Then cocked the hammer blissfully.
I put the muzzle against my head,
Then pulled the trigger, Am I dead? 
Nope, I’m not. I’m still alive.
Let’s see how I fare with three through five.
Pull. . .click! The pattern’s repeated.
After five times, I’m still not defeated.
But now the odds are six to one,
I’m under the gun (please pardon the pun).
I give the cylinder one last good spin,
And try to calm the worry within.
I put the muzzle against my head,
And cock the hammer back with dread.
The steel is cold, my mouth is bitter,
I’d stop now, but I’m no quitter.
I finger the trigger and take a breath,
Squeeze it hard, waiting for death.
It’ll depend upon my luck,
Of course, who really gives a fuck?

russian roulette.jpg

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