Bucket of Nines By Max Irvine

Bucket of nines on the table, words playing over the reprimand,
He makes his way out on the prayer thats at hand,
Voices of the lost on the train to the isle,
No ladys voice, no womans faulting smile.

All but glitters on the strange country gunner,
He drives it straight, like fake wind from the summer.
Dear lady, can you make haste of water, and earth?
Dear lady, can you rid us of the scare crows mirth?

Miles from fake, but on the edge of reason,
Can you see these childrens treason?
Too many questions, too little surprise,
Quick to the hilt, to catch his demise.

Quiet is now, no scare crows mirth.
The gunner is silent at the bottom of earth.
Children gather at the edge of the mist,
As the angry train shatters its fist.

No longer must this charade go.
Through the wind, and the fire and the first mans snow.
But that bucket of nines has made its last vow,
This charade any longer, I cannot allow