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