Dead at 94
In a bed, squirming in pain the idea came to him
Helped by an evil nurse
Whispered plans for an automatic gun
He hated the fact other colors stole his design
He hated to be raised up like a National Hero
He hated so much he spat blood at his enemies
Nightmares of his design haunted him in his dreams
Leveling bodies so quickly
So neatly in a row
Proud they were as they squeezed the triggers
Proud as they were they watched the motionless bodies fall
The fear of others coming into his fields
Taking what they wanted
Now stopped by a gentle pull of his trigger
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