When the bell rings for a new week,
you'll take your finger and pick a number,
pull the name out of a hat, down a vodka and coke
and remember pain only hurts if you're the recipient.
People say you're complex, but I know the pattern is simple,
you pick a barrel to place the bullet and spin it playfully round,
and wait till my forehead is lit up. You could kill everyone
in the room without reloading or taking another breath.
You smell like the perfume Impulsion and Caprice should
be your middle name, because you're so predictably
unpredictable.
If I tried to write about you, the ink would smudge and the
pen would dry up with the effort, the paper would tear
too easily and cut my fingers, the keyboard would break
and the computer freeze;
because nobody wants to be an accomplice in the crime
of cracking the unfathomable EnigMa.
