A warm place, a loaded gun
A suicidal conundrum:
Sitting here I am at peace
(Gripping tightly this polished piece)
And very soon all problems will cease
But then so will I.
That’s one in the eye
For all those I owe
But one in the stones
For all those I know
And love. A quandary, a groan,
Dirty laundry and a bar of soap.
But no will to wash it clean.
(Aye, there’s the rub a dub, dub.)
Now nothing’s as it seems
So I’ll just sit still and wait some
In a warm place, with a loaded gun.