In the Gutter, you have to make every shot count, brother. Trust me on that.
Because you never know who is watching. The Man Upstairs ... or the other guy.
Because you never know who is watching. The Man Upstairs ... or the other guy.
I Shot a Nun by Anthony Moretta
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I shot a nun. Yeah, but not in the way you think. One of them new ones out of Bernadette's. Broke cheer at college and joined the ranks of chaste.
Square in the face.
The nun, she called out to this other, before I shot her. She left her habit in the entrance-way. Left a few bucks to get it dry cleaned. I bought a Jason Molina record instead. Played it to broken needle and then ate a nice falafel with the change.
She said we can't do this. Shimmied as she spoke.
We smashed the hall light. Then, I shot the nun. Blasted her lips right off the planet.
I split and leave the couch warm. I’m going to search for them lips again.
I'll shoot that nun. Not in the way you think.
*
Home now. I toss my cap into the bin. Stare at the fresh bite marks on the back of hand before I die for the night.
She'd only fight for a minute again. She squeezed me to pop all over the place. There's little to hate about her. More to suspect and talk away.
We put our palms together, but nothing immediate happened. Godless and pointless. I sent her in pain. She recovers fast and builds a story around the next time we meet. 'Till then, a trillion eyes wet her up. They pin her like a badge of men and masters.
This one she cries about. This one she hurts about. She told me a name, a street, a thought.
Spent every time. Sprawled like hawks on pavement. I head back out, cap on head. Pick up a pint of her favorite on the way. Tomorrow, I'll save her.
Spent every time. Sprawled like hawks on pavement. I head back out, cap on head. Pick up a pint of her favorite on the way. Tomorrow, I'll save her.