by Nick Gisburne
A crack of bone, a splintered, wrenching snap
The whiplash as the dragon’s tongue, released
Is driven to the centre of my trap
And smashes through the carcass of the beast
The bait, to him, a morsel, nothing more
But dragons have a legendary greed
Where every other hunter failed before
I know I have the cunning to succeed
My calculations, perfect and precise
Are focused on the furnace of its head
The dragon staggers, spinning, turning twice
And crashes, hard, as though its limbs were lead
A dragon is impervious to death
But not to half a ton of crystal meth
