The Badlands

The Badlands

Out of the badlands
his eyes are pea green,
he's as fast as a burglar,
leavin' the scene.

He wears his sombrero
its brim tilted down,
everyone stays clear
cause he stinks up the town.

The pistols he wears are
hung low on his butt,
he'd soar with eagles
but he's packin' a gut.

The gunslinger lives with
his great uncle Fred
who delightfully swaggers
every night to his bed.

The posse had found him
they knew by the smell,
he'd slept with the horses
Yup! right where he fell.

The runnin' ain't easy
when yer' missin' some screws,
he's a ghost of the old west
and carmel hoodoos.

It's said he's a drifter
but acts like a jerk,
a feeeloadin' loafer
that's fearful of work.

He wants to get even
for what they had done
but now he's gone crazy
too much time in the sun!

They left him for dead
on the end of a rope,
justice prevails
and God bless the pope.

Now they say as he died
beneath the hot sun,
he ate his last meal;
his horse was well done.

Forever he's drifting
and blank is his stare
but he's the gunslinger,
in love with his mare.

So this is the legend,
the best of badlands,
the gunslinger's still there
in the hoodoos and sand.

© Copyright 2008 T.L.Finch (UN: t.l.finch at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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