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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required There’s a scoundrel in the wings He’s drunk again hear him sing For whisky is the taste for him And his songs the wind to me brings In his day no one to him could match And women thought him quite a catch For that was then and now is now But I am not saying his lost the know how I reckon he still had some fight In his eyes the fire still burned bright And he kept his weapons closer still Revenge you see was a bitter pill He was his own counsel those days Wrestling with his soul in countless ways In dreams at night he felt her lips again Wanting more but knowing she was at an end Some thought that he was no more A coward for whom drinking was now the score One day as the sun rose through the morning dew With not a word he rode away too At first there was no word And they said he was gone his life absurd Then a package came to his home His brother opened it when he was alone It was a dried scalp with a label attached Written on it in blood Spiro and the in hair matched The months went by and other packages came With each scalp labeled in blood named Montana, Hendricks and Jones All matching scalps and all known One day the last package came That for his brother was named And on unwrapping it he stepped back Four sets of eyes were packed tight whisky Jack There was a note attached to the jar Bury this at her feet her grave not mar So the next day he did as was told The sun setting to the desert cold We never saw him again For he drifted as on the wind Not to return to his home town His wife’s grave now alone found But they say it did not end there For at sundown when the desert is bare You may see four desperados wandering in the dark All blind crying for mercy stark. © Paul Warren Poetry
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