by Nick Gisburne
I wonder what you’ll whisper when you beg.
My steps are simple: torture, cripple, kill.
You need to run, and quickly. Show a leg.
I’m paid to play with murder, and I will.
I try to give a sporting chance, a start.
The warning is my signature, my sign.
You’ll hide, but when you cower, cold, take heart;
The pleasure of your death will not be mine.
Consider it a living, just a job.
Enjoy or hate it, neither speaks to me.
You’re free to spit and scream, or sit and sob,
A homicide the only sense I see.
Your brains will make a mess across the wall.
I’d rather not be killing you at all.
