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Poem

In a small town in Nevada
lived a man named Joe McCoy,
he never touched a bottle,
never bothered or annoyed.

He was a dark-haired bean-pole,
rarely even shot the bull,
the only thing said about him
was that he was always moral.

In fact Joe was so square that
folks didn’t even use his name,
they all called him ‘Moral McCoy,’
born without hint of blame.

Moral tipped his hats to the ladies
whenever they passed by,
and whenever he talked to you
he always met your eye.

He did the work of two men,
had no trouble with the law,
always went to chapel on Sunday
to give his due to God.

Yes, he was a good man,
to all he was quite fair,
but one man hated Moral,
the hired gun ‘Spike’ Kildare.

Something about quiet Moral
always rubbed Spike the wrong way,
and his dislike came to a head
one dreary, April day.

Spike stormed into Carol’s restaurant
with the roar of an angry man,
said,”McCoy get your damn sheep
off Boss Taylor’s gazing lands”

Moral had finished eating
snd said,”I’d be glad too.”
but before he could get up,
a Bowie knife Kildare drew.

He advanced on Moral slowly,
menace cold in his words:
“This is the fourth time it’s happened,
I think now you need to learn.

“The boss don’t like freeloaders
grazing damn sheep in his yards,
you’ll remember that from now on
every time you see your scars.”

Spike continued forwards,
meaning to carve Moral red,
So Moral pulled his thirty-eight
and shot Spike through the head...

CONCLUDES IN PART II.

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