I put a gun to my head
And she said, "Go ahead.
Pull the trigger, sugar.
I'll try not to cry when you die."
She took stock in my shock and proceeded to mock
"Your demise will lack surprise
Just like your listless eyes
As the blood begins to flood
Over apathetic mud."
"Will they care?" I declare. A breeze ruffles her hair
"If it stains." She maintains, indifferent to my pains
My confusion at the intrusion led to her to this conclusion:
"If you planned something grand for your final stand,
Your distress will not impress, it'll only make a mess"
So I fired and expired, Hemingway admired (incorrectly wired)
And as I bled from the head, dead, she said,
"Fuck," because her new shoes, Jimmy Choos,
Were covered in the flesh of a lover
And her moribund fund could not buy another