During the deep depths of my despair
I took out a contract on my own life
You know the type
Buy one and get one three
Money back if not totally satisfied
But I soon changed my mind
As I wanted to write poetry again
But I had fucked up and lost the contract
Which was a little scary
To say the least
I looked in the cupboard
I looked in the loft
But it was nowhere to be found
Something had to be done
So I waited for the hit man
And beat him to death with a smoker
But I knew that there would be others
Who would come after me
So I made it my role in life
To become a hit man myself
I purchased a chic white shirt
I purchased a chic black suit
I purchased a chic cherry handgun
With free shades supplied
And began stalking the underworld
To date I have killed twenty-seven hit men
But I still do not feel safe
So if by any chance
I am the victim of a successful shit
Then please accept this poem as my confession