The Gunfighter

Covered from head to toe,
with Arizona dust;
after a hard days ride.
The Gunfighter rides into town,
looking straight ahead;
not around.

His Pearl handle six shooter by his side,
just a few ticks before high noon.
He dismounted his Palomino mare,
and walked into the Saloon.

Spurs clicking,
dried lips he was licking.
As he downed his first,
quenching his thirst.

Someone made a dare,
Stranger if you don't care,
I think you should leave since,
you're leaving such a stench.

The Gunfighter turned,
stared with fire in his eyes.
As the clock on the wall,
struck noon.

Smoke filled the room,
gun barrel hot;
from only one shot.
There he lies.

Killed by the Gunfighter,
on that hot day in June.
Just a hair slower,
his body into the ground they'll lower.

Nobody knew his name,
or his fame.
Some to this day,
say
It must've been Billy the Kid.