The Way It Was In the West

He’d read all the dime novels ‘bout each famous old outlaw, Their fancy shots and darin’ deeds in the West that was raw. But now they’d shot a cowpoke robbin’ the bank that fine morn, And he lay dead and stinkin’, face down in the dust all forlorn. Some said he was a nobody, a tramp that needed cash, Some said his folks lived ‘round these parts and were white trash. Others said he once rode with the Youngers and Jesse James— While some said he robbed with the Daltons and made other claims. But there he was plum dead – all still and just a drawin’ flies, As someone called the tintype man to photograph their prize. And as they rearranged him, leanin’ stiff upon that board, They took one final picture as he smiled and met the Lord.