Sarcasm seemed so much fun when I was young,

Everybody equipped with a holster and gun.

My words, like a gunslinger or an old cowpoke,

“What’s the matter with you, can’t you take a joke?”

With many years of practice at the “shooting range,”

This gunslinger would win any gunfire exchange.

Like Doc Holliday on the ol’ west’s chaparral,

Like Bat Masterson at the OK Corral.

To me, I was clever and witty, no harm meant,

I unloaded my six-shooters, all barrels spent.

What I could not see was the blood that was spilled,

The hearts of people wounded, relationships killed.

Drag the corpses up to Boot Hill Cemetery,

Where the relational slain they may bury.

While you reload your pistol and your revolver,

The next victims await, like lambs for the slaughter.

Seth