CCW Poem

Two things move under this night sky:
that Thing that came to murder,  and I
He, released from prison to roam,
and I, peaceably headed home
He carries a knife and drug-addled sense,
seeing prey, without defense
I detect movement, intuitive fear
and put my hand to pistol near
Worried, alone in that gloomy blight
above the fear, I prepare to  fight
He sees my pistol and makes no sound,
fleeing to hunt less risky  ground
No predator dares go hunting for me
for I am armed, and that makes me  free
I holster my pistol and slowly stand down
heading, once-again, towards  home in my dark, sleeping town
For there are two things that, this night, shall not die:
my Right  to be Armed, and I!
“A nation of sheep will beget a government of ravenous wolves, cynically 
masquerading as ‘shepards!'”

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