Just as the founding fathers intended,
we should all own a weapon
for home defense.
One moonless evening,
four ruffians break into my house.
As I snatch my powdered wig,
and load my Kentucky long rifle
with an iron ball stuffed with
granules of gun powder,
I blow a hole through the first man.
He lays dead where he once stood.
Drawing my dragoon pistol
on the second man,
the bullet misses him entirely because
of it’s smootbore barrel
and the wayward
round strikes the neighbor’s
guard dog barking in his yard
into dead silence.
I must then rest my laurels
upon my cannon,
mounted at the top of the stairs,
fully loaded with grape shot.
The short fuse is sparked.
As the bunches of iron balls
shred two of the men in the blast,
along with the front door and foyer,
the booming sound and soaring shrapnel
alarms each horse into bucking
every carriage on the block.
With fixed bayonet from my
unloaded musket, I charge the last
I penetrate the soft underbelly
of the trespasser
with the triangular blade,
leaving him bleeding out
on the floor, waiting for the help
of sworn militia officers of the law
and the town’s one and only
doctor to arrive,
all helpless to save his life
since his trilateral wound
can never be stitched together.
Just as the founding fathers intended.
Butler articulates his work in a way so raw and somehow so accessible…you feel embarrassed at how readily you must acknowledge relating to his concepts, regardless of how disgusted you simultaneously feel. I feel the same way reading Dostoyevsky; it’s not for everyone, but if you’re willing to go along for the ride, you’ll thank yourself.