The Plinking Sound

He said, “This time you’re in the line of fire.”
I answered, “And you’re standing next to me;
I hope you’re in your best flame-proof attire.”
He laughed, “Sure, with a banjo on my knee.”
“Great! Play that banjo, and they’ll aim at you,
’Cause everybody hates that plinking sound.”
“Not everyone,” he argued. I laughed, too,
And countered, “I say only what I’ve found.”
We stopped laughing. The shooting had begun,
There was no banjo, and no sound like it,
And by the time the gunfire was all done
We both were lying in a bloody pit.
Still, as the blood was neither his nor mine,
We pondered, smiled, and took one glass of wine.