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It was a hole, size of a dime.
Had penetrated his left eye
a Southern California crime
they use their guns there, never shy.
The brainstem caught the leaden thing
but, at a loss to fight intrusions
it sat there, numb, and felt a sting
death came on strong, 'twas no illusion.
They dropped him into fresh cement
and poured another ton on top,
the cops would never prove intent
though they would try, this was a cop.
And it is true they did walk free,
no body meant no crime was done,
but one detective used a key
no, not revenge or his own gun.
He took the crims then for a ride
in a small Cessna to the sky.
When they were up he opened wide
the door and said this is good bye.
Pulled out his Colt, three fifty seven
and herded them, those chicken shits,
it was a quarter to eleven
and they were now out of their wits.
But he was firm and they then tumbled
out into nothingness and smog,
the pilot turned and stretched and mumbled,
then made an entry in the log.
The end result was that they had
eliminated evil doers
and no one acted real sad
they missed them only in the sewers.
Herbert Nehrlich
Read poems about / on: loss, evil, sad, sky, death
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