A poem of a shootout of the Old West. |
NOBODY'S PERFECT With a fury of horses They charged the town. With a wild cry They called him out. In the old saloon He put his drink down And cried, "At noon," With a heavy shout. Like a bell, the cries Rang crisp and clear, Like and echo of Advancing tide. During the exchange, From far and near, The woman heard the shouts, And sighed. One more man To an early grave In spite of fear, In spite of doubt. One more man They couldn't save. When noon came, Both the men came out. With heavy steps They paced to ten. Every breath was drawn Throughout the town. With a rapid turn They drew, and then In a blaze of guns He shot him down. He gave his final Parting gasp In the one instant Before he died, Like a prize was just Beyond his grasp, And the women turned their heads, And cried. One more grave Dug six feet down. One more ballad, One less dawn. In the pouring rain, All of the town Came, buried him, Then carried on. A traveler came Upon a grave. With curiosity, He read To see what poor Excuse it gave. And this is what The epitaph said: "He cried for every Life he took, He rode so proud, He stood so tall. He was a liar And a crook - He was the best man Of us all." |