bullets in the bedroom

now her chest had a dark hole

which oozed the tragic magic

—of a song about deceit

that sweet, sad twang

of haunting abandon

it ached and it sang

a breaking heart, the only one

exhales spiraled a bigger

curtain over glossy eyes

the mellow guitar trigger

rifled her wailing, bluesy cries

tight strings over a dark hole

a breathy pause for grave effect

strumming shivers to the soul

her low register was a wreck

the audience, deathly quiet

cool fret squeaks were heard

the chords now on their diet

from the finger picking bird

that sweet, sad twang

the words, a bad pun

it still ached and sure rang

though the story was long done

bullets in the bedroom

and her chest had that dark hole

which oozed the tragic magic

—of a song about deceit