Pig's iron, shining on the dead eye's pistol. 
Forged soft in the furnace of Manilla summer nights.
Even Kingpin's dreams can go awry, much like holding a world's weight in sand
worth just as much as you can't seem to hold.

What a miserbale business this is.
Deadening the nerves, overflowing with checks and balances;
Component after component, traded, bought, and sold, for little pieces of us.

You may choose to feel days, forlorn,
of carved, wood-grain promises, choking now
on the smell of the damp; the smell of the innocence you covetously call naivete. 
But Dog's red looks the same
under sunrise, in no-man's land.