The Man with a Mettling Moustache
A man seen as either friend or foe,
Which path to take, which to go.
His name strikes fear into an enemy heart,
Where spilled blood can be turned into art.
His long, black moustache holds something strong,
Where his people never thought of him as wrong.
No gun, no knife fears him inside or out,
As the forest makes no whisper or shout.
A voice against powers of uniform,
A man's figure of rebelling transform.
Bird or beast, lost in the feast,
Of power, fear, and a power that never ceased.
A man seen as either friend or foe,
Which path to take, which to go.
Fell at last, with no where hide,
As his gun had its last ride.
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