I wish I can shoot him
I do not have that gun;
He may wish to kill me
For he has machine one.

I move in the circles
of our common friends;
Afraid to hurt comrades,
Can’t use machine gun.

But I kill him always,
Every time he appears;
In the crowded company
Of our common friends.

I shoot him point blank,
From my fresh poemic gun
With spoken word bullets
Penetrating in his brain.

But he braves it always
And dares bullets again,
Ever ready, ever willing,
To be hurt again, again;

Me, compelled oblige him.
He, friend of my friends.