No God West of Ft. Smith

There is no Sunday west of St. Louis And no God that’s west of Ft. Smith— So says the frontier adage that’s truest And confirms the last Old West myth. Wild Bill Hickok had him a dead man’s hand— They found John Ringo ‘neath a tree. Billy the Kid was shot where he did stand— They never found Butch Cassidy. Jesse was shot unarmed by a young creep, Belle Starr was shot-gunned in the back— Wyatt Earp died years later in his sleep And the Dalton boys all got whacked. Dirty Dave Rutabaugh did lose his head, Doc Holliday died of TB— And Wyatt Earp shot Curly Bill stone dead, But what became of “Buckskin” Leslie? John Wesley Hardin was shot in a bar— Frank James lived to a ripe old age. Cole Younger wrote down most of his memoir, Buffalo Bill soon was the range. Now west of St. Louis Sundays do thrive And west of Ft. Smith they’ve found God— But the frontier is no longer alive And the Old West is a smile and a nod.