by Nick Gisburne
She counts the credits, coins to match the kill
But sees him shiver, low on Public Dope
How strange that men, condemned to suffer, still
Use murder to afford a scrap of hope
Enough, he knows, to pacify a wife
To patch their rusty shelter from the rain
But nothing is more certain in this life
Than what will soon be flooding through his brain
He struggles, silent, praying that the line
Propels him to the drug before he dies
A pilgrim at a godforsaken shrine
A special strain of loathing burns his eyes
He knows the man, the beast, he has become
Assassin. Killer. Junkie. Addict. Scum
