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.
Copyright © Charles Ruble