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Photo by John Royle on Unsplash

Thrill Kill Phil lived on Pill Hill,
He ain’t nothin’ like me or you.
Because taking life and breaking hearts,
Are things he loved to do.
As a child he set fires,
It made his neighbors blue.
Dropping bricks from roof tops,
He cracked a head or two.
Phil was on that left-hand path,
Which is do what you will do.

Christina lived on wit and grace,
Her hair it shown so fine.
Her body like the Venus’ fire
And eyes that did so shine.
But Christina played the player’s game,
Often on red wine.
Her smile was enchantment,
Enchanting tricks for time.

Christina strolled on Cherry Street,
Where the young girls sold their ware.
On midsummer’s eve a van pulled up,
Thrill Kill was lurking there.
Though veteran be, this beauty she,
Climbed in without a care.
Believing in her wit and grace,
Thought not of spider’s lair.

Now Christina’s love was Lucky Luke,
Raised by the state owned cage.
He had somehow found sanctuary
From the war he used to wage.
Together they found love in life,
Though on the streets of rage.
Together they lived one hundred years,
While only fifteen years of age.

Lucky Luke was stressed that day,
He had hunted through the night.
Hunting for that pot of gold,
And jewels that lived in light.
For their coffers had been emptied,
By snorting up the white.
Finding Cristina not at home,
Something wasn’t right.

An alleyway in dumpster dead,
Is where her body’s found.
Broken she lay naked,
Her wrists were firmly bound.
Luke he shed so many tears
When they laid her in the ground.
Black clouds had built around his heart,
And his head began to pound.

“Not for fowl nor furry beast,
Nor ever hunted doe.
That dough that tends to glitter,
Is the only hunt I know.
Now I hunt for demon kind,
Hunting high and low.
By God I will have vengeance!
Off to the hunt I go.”

On Broadway Street, the monster meet,
Under Seatown’s neon sky.
Luke pulls the deadly canon,
And let’s the bullets fly.
The silence of the morning
Was broken by this cry,
For while the bullets found their mark —
The Beast will never die.

Disclaimer: The views in this article are those of the author. Prison Journalism Project has verified the writer’s identity and basic facts such as the names of institutions mentioned.

T. Lux is the pen name for a writer incarcerated in Washington.