Pastiche

It was the last order rush All full of fun and chat. As the door swung wide All turned to look at what. He wore his hat pulled low He wore his dark hair long And his spurs jingle jangled Like the rhythm to a song. His leather chaps dragged And scraped along the floor And you could cut the tension As he stood there in the door. Someone started laughing, Then another one or two, Great guffaws and giggles You know the way you do. He glared at us with slitted eyes One hand hovered as if to draw And as the laughter increased Glared at us all once more. The last Gunfighter? Survivor of the few? But rather out of place In a Saturday chippy queue He walked out defiantly. Such an amazing sight, Ok I suppose in Tombstone, But on a Barnsley boozy night?