Our William Tell Act

I shot the bitch and then I wrote a book.
The unclean spirit so ensnared my brain.
Her own death wish was really all it took.

Of drugs and literature we both partook;
Bohemia a comfortable terrain.
I shot the bitch and then I wrote a book,

and though it took a while before I got unhooked,
eventually I couldn’t find a vein.
Her own death wish was really all it took

to permanently cement the bleak outlook:
a junkie hero I am to remain.
I shot the bitch and then I wrote a book.

She was the den mother among the thieves and crooks,
the goddess of the wretched and profane.
Her own death wish was really all it took

to place the glass atop her head and overlook
all that would be sensible and sane.
I shot the bitch and then I wrote a book.
Her own death wish was really all it took.

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