I think when we have gathered the iron of his life
We will see that Gun Weasel the man was indeed a ruthless terrorist
It must have been when darkness fell that Gun Weasel shaped his life
No congregation just the occasion of a childhood never out of the pit
The grass would blow in the wind and ammunition would be polished
Gun Weasel the older of two brothers doors would fly open
The mirrors in the house Gun Weasel would package in black velvet
For Gun Weasel when he read a horror comic that comic bled
The shore and its tide both intellectual and martyr
All this on his one tattoo Gun Weasel’s lamp of the living dead
His faraway look at every funeral
Finely clad his rifle aimed in a direction just below the sun
Death can’t touch me he said
My release to the world is to make of you
That I blew you to bits to make noble martyrs of you
Urgency without apology my iron teeth check them out
My only rations are the rocks of the field

Ronald Rae