Hither canning town stands a little village between cities
Abandoned by the grand old one
Pumpkin growing peasants seeking sun, gin
and the company of unpredictable vagabonds
Wide dank streets to what would once be a towering city
Shacks every hundred meters or so and within the empty space...
A cripple or begger with some uncurable ailment
they'd charge you to hear or charge for silence
No organization, no maintenance
the walls behind the mainstreet stood seven meters high
Covered by soot, moss and insect nests
they no longer resembled walls
I try to bargain with a local man
For a biscuit and water for my way forward
One of the street vagrants presents a musket
one of birmingham's new gun quarter best
it fit his shoulder perfectly his aim seemed true
The flint dove down and sparks came a dozen
lead ball felled me before my senses knew
I could see blood and parts me
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