Guitar Gringo

He stepped down from the stagecoach kicking dust up with his boot He stood a while, he lacked a smile, his teeth gripped his cheroot His Stetson it was thick with dust, his guitar case was too He looked around this downbeat town; found no man that he knew He’d travelled to this lawless town of which he’d gotten word Two preachers vanished here before, but he won’t be the third For he had brought his guitar which, to praise the Lord, he plays And when he strums those guitar strings, the congregation sways Had this town been a Wild West town, he’d know which way to go But how does one say ‘Hotel’, here in outback Mexico? A man in a sombrero, three armed sidekicks in his wake Sauntered up and told him to be gone for his own sake “Hey, Cowboy, we don’t want no Gringo, messing up our town, Take yourself and your guitar before we take you down.” The preacher said, “I’ll play for you and if you love the tune You’ll point me to the chapel and the rowdiest saloon.” He’d travelled to this lawless town of which he’d gotten word Two preachers vanished here before, but he won’t be the third For he had brought his guitar which, to praise the Lord, he plays And when he strums those guitar strings, the congregation sways He reached down for his guitar case, the Mexicans took aim And with a little slight of hand, the preacher did the same But nothing grins as wide as when a bandit thinks he’s won And when four guns are facing one the job’s as good as done So was it skill or was it God who played a helpful part When each of those four bandits took a bullet to the heart The sheriff, if you’d call him that, said, “Have you got a name?” The preacher said, “I’ll tell you Sunday if it’s all the same.” The sheriff, having none of it, said, “Tell me who you are.” He said, “I’m just a gringo with my god and my guitar. But men of God preceded me and got no help from you. So clear your desk, I am not me… I am those other two He’d travelled to this lawless town of which he’d gotten word Two preachers vanished here before, but he won’t be the third For he had brought his guitar which, to praise the Lord, he plays And when he strums those guitar strings, the congregation sways