Bad Fourty-Four

As I look down at the little town, I left so long ago, I remember things and all those dreams, That I wanted so. I carry a gun and am on the run, But this I tend to forget. I ride down the hill,everything still, But upon my horse I sit. A little man is what they see,I stand only five foot three, But I am lightening fast just the same. I carry a short barreled fourty-four,bad to the core, And it shoots seventeen inches of flame. Quickest hands in the bad lands, Of old new Mexico. Thought I was clever but never cleared leather, As his bullet the gun would throw, It was coming fast as I took my last gasp, To the ground I fell, All I could see was a cowboy in front of me, Who I couldn't tell, As he knelt down,his badge fell to the ground, And he took my bad fourty-four. You used to be the fastest hand in the bad land, But son,not no more.