The Assassin's Lament

I remember when this was a gentleman’s game;
when we were just young and with nought to our name

A flickknife and mask, were the tools of our trade
And we plied it with honour, like those we unmade.

The knife in the dark, the swish of a cloak,
then sneaking off down some back alley, for a smoke,

A swiftly-cleaned blade all that told of a kill.
Now that, right there, that’s a carefully-honed skill.

...

But now, so I’m told, we all use a gun,
Which twice as efficient, but half as much fun

And a bullet’s not alive, can never walk, talk, or play
it has no respect for what it’s taking away.

It’s over too quickly, and any idiot can try
if all you need’s a revolver, and someone to die.

There’s no beauty or art in a throwing bits of lead
(even if the catcher does end up dead)

...

So take your pistols, your rifles, your scopes and your sights.
I’d trade it in an instant for those sweet moonless nights,

For a cloak with a hood and the glint of a dagger,
To walk the streets with respect, and the hint of a swagger.

I wish it were then, and not here right now
Sitting here, alone, asking why, and how-

How’s a craftsman like me to ply my trade and thrive;
and what’s the point of killing, if you don’t feel alive?

---

So, this is three things.
Firstly, it's very late. For which I apologise, but I am housesitting with no internet.
Secondly, it is very slightly recycled. I had the first line sitting in a file and I stumbled upon it
Thirdly, and I cannot stress this enough, it is a poem about assassins. Thus proving that I've gone totally crazy.

Glad we got that sorted out.