Naked Jack

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He strolls into town,
Dressed in his best birthday suit,
Nothing but a dusty Stetson hat on his head,
And a rusty six-shooter in his hand.

The sun bounces off sweaty,
Hairy muscles,
He spits out a wad of tobacco,
His bare feet crush the hot earth,
His manhood swings in the desert breeze.

Gaze upon him,
In all his glory,
Through cracks in doors,
Through slits in curtains,
Through dirty keyholes,
Don’t let him see you.

He looks silly,
But the dried blood on his fingertips isn’t.

Neither is the blood on his lips,
Staining his yellow teeth,
Or the smell of smoke,
Seeping out the barrel of his gun,
Or that hungry look in his eyes.

His thumb flicks the hammer on his gun,
Like the spark wheel on a cigarette lighter.

Jack only gets naked when he’s ready to kill.