The Showdown
Into the street he sauntered one day
Might be his last, no one could say.
Wore a sassy Stetson, chaps and spurs
ring-jingly things, with raucous burrs.
A silvered six gun pressed his hip
a tiny tremble dressed his lip.
Tough as nails with firm resolve
he hoped this battle would absolve,
a hidden weed of secret fear
(kept to himself, so very near).
With nerves of steel he ambled along
his sober thoughts a mournful song.
It was not very far across the town
to the scene of the big showdown.
When he reached the square he gave a shout
to a lurking foe he yelled, “COME OUT!”
But no man breached the lair’s cold door,
so he lifted the latch, chilled to the core.
His enemy glanced up, with face in mask,
our hero blanched, crushed by his task.
His quick draw hand was not advanced
but a warm foul liquid filled his pants
For in the hand of his fated foe
was a killing tool, he’d soon come to know.
“Mommy!” “Mommy! “Mommy!” the gunslinger cried.
Thrice he pleaded, but was denied.
For the quest he faced was not for thrill.
It was the dreaded, droning, Dentist’s drill.
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