As I ran across the corn field, hand wrapped around a gun,
I was tired, low and restless after ten days on the run.
The man behind me, running too, was known for being a good shot.
If I’d had lingered any longer, my past would be my lot.
Fifteen years and then some, I had paid my debt in time,
Wishing, in my heart of hearts, that I’d never done the crime.
I knew, when planning my dirty deed, it really shouldn’t be,
But I took the job and did the crime before they then transferred my fee.
As I glanced behind, to see the hunter, tearing through the corn,
I wondered, for the first time, if this man was even born.
He’d tracked me, friend, from east to west and never had retreated.
If he ever got his hands on me, I’m sure I’d be mistreated.
The crime I did, I am not proud, for it was really no good thing.
I had to see the Father and kiss his Holy ring.
Two hours I spent, in solitude, confessing every sin.
And no greater one, he told me, was the killing of one’s kin.
I had got the call, one day at home, when reading from a book,
To say that I had a delivery and to come and have a look.
They told me, when I got there, that a girl had brought it in,
The doorman called her pretty, through his cheeky little grin.
On the desk there lay a briefcase that I knew would hold a file.
The target of which, I’d never have guessed in a sultry country mile.
I had done this for some time now and so I knew what was to come,
But I never thought to think about who would, one day, be one.
As I gazed upon the picture which I took out of the file,
I saw the face of my father, Roberto Fulsome Kyle.
I never thought the day would come, when patricide was asked of,
But, looking on my father’s face, I knew that things had kicked off.
I should tell you now, at this point, that my father’s no damned Angel,
And spent his life, in darkness, making theft and murder manageable.
His life had been a rough one and he’d done his share of time,
But the next few years in prison, surely would be mine.
As the man who chased me also gained, I felt my heart explode,
If he caught me here, his anger hot, my tale would not be told.
He’d lay me out and take my life and leave me in the dust.
To step it up; to run it off; to make it out, I must.
As I reached the end and made it through, I took a sudden left,
I jumped a local and stole his clothes and left my own bereft.
It wasn’t very nice, I know, to steal a poor man’s garments,
But hindsight’s always twenty-twenty through a dying man’s laments.
I hopped a train and made my escape with second of time remaining.
As the man ran up, he missed his chance, his pencil neck was craning,
For me around the passengers, collected on the train,
But he never saw me standing and never will again.
I know I made it sound like I had made it home and clear,
But you should-now hear the ending, though it shakes my heart with fear.
For the train it never made it to its destination line,
And joined me in the cavern until the very end of time.
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