A guy called Jim, passed me a mug,
and called it remedy,
such poisoned pride, makes man a thug,
thus, put an end to me,
via such submission,
one by one they fell,
no spirit in remission,
just lost souls for hell,
then I looked down, the corpses piled,
the garden was a mess,
to which for him, I was reviled,
my thoughts began to press,
my tomb’s not in Jonestown,
I’ll choose where I’ll lay,
to make my name; somewhat renowned,
hence, he was in my way,
but no murder, did I commit,
for mirror image stains,
as in mind, I won’t permit,
any growing pains, so;
instead of death cocktail,
I replaced it with some wine,
to toast my deed; to not be frail,
where my choice will shine.