perhaps a keg

For I.
I am but the butterfly wing clinging to the window pain
Of life.
Triumph in the balcony of a theatre where the bullet disposed
Of a presidents head, stone cold dead.
And I remain holding like a cliff hanging deciple amongst a biblical
Passage, old and sand scripted, alone and dillapetated
For I,
I am but a button on a coat left undone
A bullion of a banking strife that's relapsed when the sunsets shunned
The blinking of a thousand eyes collapsed in rubicks cubed
Diced and quartered when the mouth becomes removed.
A booth who escaped for a downward smile
Through a tunnels crowd but like Oswald found in the after while
Yet was it really the scapegoat cause or the real answer within
Never been a lone wolf assassination, alter your views I beg
I'll crack open a pint of ale my friend if you recognise perhaps a keg