The Morning News tells me about you;

The things you did last night.

You shot a gun.

And now you’ve won

Fame’s blazing white bright light.

You’re quick on your feet.

Eyes, sharp as a knife.

Fingers that blur with deft speed.

But that’s all there’s to ya;

A vibrant young body.

A brainless intent t’ward pride.

The flash of your “best” is gone in a moment.

And now on t’ward hell you will ride.

But wasn’t that your destination,

Before all this began?

Your life’s no more than vomit;

Just reeking up the land!

A baby’s dead,

You cursed spry man!

There!  Rest your frame tonight.

You have murdered your peer.

And you thought you were a man.