Big John

Let me tell you a story from the old wild-west;

Of a terrible lawman with a star on his vest.

His title was “Ranger”; not bound to a town

He studied the outlaws then hunted them down.

One long hot summer; played like a pawn

He’d failed to take down the man called “Big John”.

He was tired and thirsty, his mood like black jet

As he rode into Dodge his sights were still set

On Big John!

He stabled his horse, and checked out the saloon

‘cause he’d heard the big man liked to drink there at noon.

Through the wide swinging doors, he strolled to the back

With a face as long as a wagon-wheel track.

The scowl on his face told me this man was risky,

But I was the bar keep, and he needed whiskey.

So I poured him a double in a clean mason jar

And slid it down deftly to the end of the bar.

He quaffed it and gave me a tip of his hat.

I thought it was over, except for the fact

That his mood was still dark, like rain in a flood,

I knew in my gut there was bound to be blood.

There in the corner; his back to the wall,

He waited with patience; said nothing at all.

Just stared at the space ‘bove the wide swingin’ doors,

His hands at his sides, drooping down toward the floor.

It was quarter past noon when the room darkened some

Big John in the doorway; blocking the sun.

Two shots rang out from the man in the vest.

Two blood stains emerged on the big fella’s chest.

Big John just stood there; there in the door,

Then the glasses all rattled as John hit the floor.

Dry-gultched, like a fox at a watering hole

Big John was finished; so, likely his soul!

The old wanted poster said “Dead or Alive”.

They just didn’t care how Big John arrived!

The Ranger just smiled and sighed, “One more round!”

Then he gathered his pony and rode out of town.