She was a scary mongrel, and you had to be a sentinel…
Watch out for her or she might scourge, then a dirge for your genitals.
A bite so deep you’d have to keep a heap within your arsenal
Of anodynes, wherein to find an ampule full of fentanyl.

In this sad case, you’d have to place in fat shells till your gat was full
To wield a Glock, a heater chock-full of lead—that’s emphatical!
You’ve had active practice in past… the act of having shot a few.
Upon the beast you’d sneak, meekly, not speak, so she’d have not a clue.

You’ve got a scope, no optic grope to open up; you’ve got a view.

She looked so mean that you had deemed, indeed she was a rabid mutt,
Though from her mouth, foam’d not pour out, but gore could spout from drastic cuts.
In short, she was an animal demanding you be sentinel.
She was a scary mongrel that might maul, mangle your genitals.

But you’ve got guts, won’t put the mutt in a kennel…sentimental.

If you had luck when up she snuck, then the mutt would just tear your socks.
A better scene would be to team up with a gleaming pair o’ Glocks.
If one should jam, then the new plan would be: in hand the second one.
Such use of brain would make it plain that you had bravely reckoned some.

But when you aim, this ain’t a game, and lame would be a coughin’ spree.
A coffin spree you’d rather see when deadly is your offin’ spree.
A steady hand, or shredded gland’s what you damn well might well be in for.
You’ve got your pride, no need to hide; abide—besides, you’re reinforced.

From empathy and sympathy completely you will be divorced.

What they read here could rear some jeers…piqued PETA people cavilin’.
It’s not as if you’d rip the bitch spitting her on a javelin,
Or tie a noose tight—never loose!—and lynch her with this lariat.
An ordnance rip so slick and quick. This kill, off you can carry it.

You have determined that this vermin mutt won’t be a runner, free,
Because you’ve learned; It’s best to earn your worth by working gunnery.
Your strategy’s not randomly embraced; you’d brayed: A plannin’ spree
There had to be, adamantly—“No gamblin, me—a strategy!”

You love to gun creatures that run. You’re strategy’s a whackin’ spree.

Need no military cortege…luck and bucks; you’re not in penury.
You’ve many guns for many funs; the dog undone is meant to be.
A trigger pull for filling full of bullets curr incorr’gible
But who’s the scary mongrel in this tail tale that’s deplorable?

There’s good, there’s bad; but it is sad the spiel you sell ain’t liminal,
Transitional; position’ll be poured out, unconditional:
A prison cell’s where you should dwell—a kennel for a criminal.