Rock Poetry

Losing it 

Jimmy used to be a lotta fun, until the day he bought this gun.
Every night to Sloan Square, then some fool made him a dare.
Against punk rock he had a quirk, he couldn't stand their fad for dirt.
He dared poor Jimmy to shoot his load, so he made his way up King's road.
And there they were all dressed in gear, a crowd of them, they had no fear.
"Look, this prick thinks he's a ted" taunted the big one with the orange head.
"Hello Teddy boy, think you're cool, we think you look a bloody fool"
Jimmy smiled and slipped hand in coat, just as orangehead grabbed his throat.
He emptied every shot, the whole magazine, more blood and carnage they'd never seen.
Seven punks lay there dying, two were bleeding, screaming, crying.
Jimmy simply shook his head, and kicked the one already dead.
Then he walked away so very cool, he never knew he could be so cruel.
But now he could never be the same, for he'd enjoyed every second of this game.
The police found him that same night, they hoped to take him without a fight;
but Jimmy would not be outdone, this was gonna be some fun.
He hid the gun alongside his throat, then buttoned up his overcoat.
Then out he came with hands held high, "Don't shoot. Give in. Don't want to die".
When in their midst went for his gun, the police were slow, completely stunned.
Five of them fell about the ground, the chief inspector spun around.
He emptied four rounds into Jimmy's chest, five seconds later he came down to rest;
His head propped up on the side of the street, blood ran down his legs and over his feet.
The ambulance arrived, but much too late, twelve others that night had met their fate.

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