by Nick Gisburne
To kill a man, then try to take his place,
To steal the storied life he never had,
He modifies the features of his face,
Convinced his clever plan is ironclad.
His mannerisms, habits, quirks, and more,
Are studied, copied, mastered to a T.
At last he throws his victim to the floor
And strangles him before the man can flee.
Disposal is efficient, quick, precise.
The murder never happened, so it seems.
But even cold perfection has its price
When others have their own appalling schemes.
Not noticing a copy in the bed,
His mistress kills a duplicate instead.
