The cliche kid rode into town,
He wore a stetson, he wore a frown,
With knitted gloves and knitted brow,
Eyes wide shut he made a vow.
"This moon in june will wane tonight,
Then I'll blow him out of sight"
Big Al's days were numbered, one through five,
This time tomorrow, he won't be alive.
Alliteration Al's allure to alcoholic ales
Is legend and told in many tales,
Drink drove him to desperate deeds,
Nefarious knowledge of notorious needs.
His high noon was coming, though late at night,
After hours carousing and afternoon delight,
Death was waiting, more like lurking, outside the bar,
He stumbled and fumbled beneath swaggering stars.
Out on the street, outwitted,outgunned,
The kid shot Al down for sport and for fun,
'No one doubt the cliche is the best' and
He rode off into the sunset, to the mild mild west.
