They call you the Gentleman Scoundrel, because no one knows your name — yet. You’re a rogue in the shadows, a poet picaro who keeps your crew humming: clever-canting your way through score after score, severing the strings and sinews of power with 13 lines left for the left-behind.
The lives I ended with pistol or pen, now haunt me instead. They gape and gossip at my regrets laid bare; drunkards squabbling over the last pint (of sorrow).