He looked down the long barrel of the rifle;
And muttered So, it's this way it will travel ,
The bullet that ends all — that will unravel
The tangle I've got into: but a trifle
Of dirt still soils it: and it must be clean —
Though I, in life, have been a fool and feckless,
The way that death comes to me must be speckless ...
There — now it's clean as a new pin!
Between
His feet he set the butt, and, to the muzzle,
His brow; and clutched the string tied to the trigger,
Chuckling — May I be roasted for a nigger ,
If I don't hold the one clue to the puzzle!