A moment of poetry for the silent assassin

My name is Mister Forty Seven,
There is no place for me in Heaven.
Designed to maim, destroy, and gore,
This world is not what I was for.
With care precise, a surgeon’s knife
Inserted me into this life.
No soul, no purpose to explore,
No book of judgement keeps my score.
No angel gives a second look
At any life I ever took.
Oh Cronus, I have felt your dread,
As you, I saw my fathers dead
And wrote myself another role,
Perhaps one day to earn a soul.
My silver guns, my tools of trade.
They do their job, and I get paid.
My tale is really not that funny.
Don’t show me pity, send the money.

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