The Gunman Poem by Neil Kennett

On a cold moonless night
Somewhere near London,
The wind whistled fast
Through the hair of a gunman
Whose purpose was none
But to kill, after sundown
As his heart was graceful,
But silent and rundown.
His mother a mere poet
With tears and a quill pen
But his father was known
As the finest of con-men,
Their love was none If not truthfully honest
As both left their son
For a verse and a promise.

And when he discovered
He assumed that they died
He claimed to be tearless
And none knew that he lied.
Now in the street
With the sight to his eye
And all that remained
Was a half-finished sigh
As he heaved back the trigger
And looked to the sky
To remember his father
And curse God on high.
The old wooden tavern
Held silence inside
As it's guests watched the gunman
With fear undenied.
Said one man to another
Not expecting reply
'Sir, he is the devil, For he's not afraid to die'

Still the gunman stood
Alone on an busy street
The tavern`s population
Would soon lie quiet beneath
And so back home he went
Another night`s work complete
As he walked away he thought:
Of lucid flowers and wreaths
Lain by a solemn few
Their prayers now obsolete
Thought of the funeral,
The rumbling of feet
As friends entered the churchyard
And warmed their seats,
But held his emotion
As sword in a sheath
And on the surface
His eyes repeat
`you are fearless of death
And have God to defeat`

His heart disagreed
With the word in his eye
But was still rendered silent
By secrets and lies
So his mind led his hand
Both ruled by the eyes
That saw only anger
That burned like Hellfire.
They say no man that ever
Stared into those eyes
Was humanly able
To relate or describe
Their view of the devil
As he looked to the sky
And so memory vanished
As soon as he died
And all that remained
Was on a gravestone inscribed
'Here lies a man who was not afraid to die'