Painting by Vickie Hurtt-Thayer
The wild, wild, west he shot his last gun, the big bad felon that thought he had won. His boots are now kicking his big toes, He's left a trail of nowhere to go. The dusty road has all blown away, No longer a tenderfoot, that's what they say. This is what I know, this is what I send, there is always a means to the end. There are people who are artist, nothing to do with talent, it's the farthest. Taking a life or someones money, to them it's all still funny. There are people who are rotting, deserving what they've gotten. The bars they used to drink in, are now bars holding them. Ones whose punishment escaped them, they will surely pay. There's still alot to say, And she along with God...will someday.
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