Poem of the old west and a few salty characters.
|The Sheriff was a big man riding tough on his town.
He had his dirty hands into every thing around.
Half owner of the saloon and the faro tables too,
rustling, protection racket, made the townfolk blue.
A large band of deputies he had to make his threats be true,
whenever one stood up to him, they’d be beaten black and blue.
If ever one came close and found displeasure with the sheriff,
there was only one outcome as soon death became their tariff.
Then came a day when brothers came to visit their sister.
Tough and strong, guns tied low, and everyone called them mister.
They were mostly good men as good as men can go.
They were men that wouldn’t back down and none could Buffalo.
It didn’t take them long to run sideways to a deputy,
outdrew him did they both and he began to make his plea.
Brother Darrin shot him in the gun arm just to make his point.
Shot him only once, but shot him in his joint.
It wasn’t very long before the Sheriff came a callin,
“Shooting my deputy, that surely was apallin.”
“I’m gonna have to arrest you now and put you in my jail.
“That’s what the other fella tried, you best have another tale.”
Tension was a flying and tempers flared their head.
It wasn’t long now, before someone’s gonna be dead.
The sun was high and hot, as well as the men that stood,
Death was calling, nothing could abate the battle for the hood.
The Sheriff drew first, but his gun didn’t clear leather,
dead on his feet, as the brothers fired together.
Now the Sheriff and his bunch are laid on boot hill,
where the trouble they caused is at rest and still.
Not many folks knew that I even had a brother,
cause he died far too young at the hand of another,
the only story folks tell of me while riding on their filly,
are about ole Pat, Mr. Tunstell, and yeah, about me; Billy.