The old, old lady had a revolver
She kept in her nightstand
Each night when she went to bed
She would look at it after she brushed her hair

She had bullets, too, in a little box
But the cases were green now,
The lead bullets a fuzzy white
Like her hair

Iver Johnson died in 1895, when
His .32 caliber nickel-plated gun
cost six dollars.
Dollars were bigger, then

The little gun was hammerless
Safe enough to be around babies
“No Accidental Discharge”
Iver guaranteed it.

My great aunt was a tiny woman
I’m sure the gun was huge for her
But I held it with three fingers
It was like a toy gun, only heavy

After she died the gunsmith told me
The gun was defective and would never
Have fired had she tried to use it
The gun that made her feel safe
Was not a gun at all.