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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Was near high noon in Abilene, Everybody was at the scene. Sheriff was stern and standing fast, Clueless today would be his last. A mystery man rode into town, Said was the fastest gun around. A Navy Colt strapped by his side, On a painted horse, he did ride. The rumor was he'd killed plenty, Some swore it was more than twenty. Each one shot right through the head, Left them stiff and stone cold dead. First victim, was his older Brother, Laid soiled hands on their Mother. Through the years, the numbers mounted, Even some they never counted. His legend still continued to grow, Wherever he stopped, blood would flow. Women let out a piercing scream, Became an undertaker's dream. On this fateful day, two men stood, The only sound was creaking wood. Crowd was hushed, eyes widely staring, Combatants were sharp and glaring. The clock struck twelve, then both men drew, Lightning quick; as the bullets flew. One man standing, the other down, There came a loud gasp from the town. When the gunsmoke cleared on the street, The Shootist was still upon his feet. Just one more notch on his gun, Mounted up beneath the blazing sun. Moments later, a shot would crack, The stranger caught it in the back. Sheriff's Deputy, sworn to trust; Dropped the killer, face in the dust. The story's still told to this day, His rotting bones rest in the clay. And since his name was never known, "The Gunfighter" was carved in stone.
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