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.
