Last Ride Of The Black Hat...
It was the last dregs of twilight in a bloody season,
Too many scalps hanging from the saddle,
Pale ones too it didn't matter with this hombre,
He'd shoot the fingers off a baby of it would turn a buck,
Look forward without sweating,
Practiced in the art of denial,
He'd repeat the story until even he remembered the lies,
Walking under the stars alone,
He'd rode his nag into bones in the desert,
No firewood it was frigid out here,
Even the rattlesnakes were ducked under the dunes,
But there were rumblings beneath his feet,
The Earth opened underneath him,
Searing at four thousand degrees pardner,
The voices you'd thought delivered to damnation,
Howling for your blood,
Even the shrieking sheiks you'd tussle with,
Welcome to the Hell you tried to create.
By: Daniel A. Stafford
Trick or treat! Anyone come to mind?