Sitting here
stroking my Bushmaster,
giving the barrel a spit shine
with the palm of my hand.
Feeling good
just to admire the bad boy,
pet it slow and easy
and hold it across my lap.
Don’t need no stinkin’ job
or fancy roof over my head,
no sixteen years of schooling
or lame health insurance
long as I have
this big, beautiful thing
standing between my legs,
my finger tickling the trigger.