Goodbye, sir, & fare well. You’re in the clear
“Nobody” (Mark says you said) “is ever found out.”
I figure you were right
Having as Henry got away with murder
For long. Some jarred clock tells us it’s late
Not for you who went straight

But for the lorn. Our roof is lefted off
Lately: the shooter, and the bourbon man
And then you got tired
I’m afraid that’s it. I figure you with love
Lifey, deathy, but I have a little sense
The rest of us are fired

Or fired: be with us, and we’ll blow our best
Our sad wild riffs come easy in that case
Thinking you over
Knowing you resting, who was reborn to rest
Your gorgeous sentence done. Nothing’s the same
Sir,—taking cover