|Jan/Feb 2001 Poetry|
It's easy for you to say
I was a gunman and an outlaw!
When I was last caught in Yuma,
Worn out from crossing the Gila Desert,
They didn't think it over
And hung me right away on the gallows.
I didn't expect a just trial,
Just expected to say my prayers,
And could not say no to the rope.
So was the practice in the old Far-West.
All in all, I got what I deserved;
Every complaint was beyond dispute.
They sold my six-shooter and rifle
To a filiform Chinese money-grubber
And buried my corpse here on the boot-hill.
Considering all that I'd done, maybe
I got even more than was due.
I was badly born in some ghost-town
Whose name and site I soon forgot;
I have lived worse, from raid to raid,
And I died in the worst possible way,
In a place where I was seeking repair.