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About This Poem
The Tree The Bells The Blazing Guns
The Tree
The Bells
The Blazing Guns
Seemed like fate never saw kind, on that drifter called Stone.
Riding the dusty trail, over the Rockies, alone.
With winter behind him, on that warm, spring day.
He was planning for Calgary, by the mid-month of May.
Winter was hard for him, fending off the bitter cold.
Was many a nights, the devil had wanted his soul sold.
But despite those hard months, he had managed to stave.
Enough strength to keep both feet, out of his own, self-dug grave.
When the folk of the town had found their loot gone.
Was then when Stone just happened, to come rambling on.
The truth of the matter, was not plain to see.
Because when Stone rode to town, it was all contrary.
With the real culprit gone, so no one else to answer for thieving.
Left Stone all alone with nowhere to run leaving.
Stone heard the bells of the small town church sound.
With guns blazing, the town folk shot the thief they had done found.
And because they were all, as mad as can be.
They hung poor old Stone, from an old hanging tree.
SHM
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