The western days
The gambler is at the table,playin with a deck of cards,
The gun slingers drinkin sour whiskey,standin at the bar.
The mayor is goin up the steps with a lady leadin his way,
The hard workin farmer comes in to spend a little of his pay.
The drunk is in the corner,tryin to bum a drink,
The traveler is shavin upstairs in the dry sink.
The guns are worn on their sides as they stand in the street,
The sweat is puring from their hands in this noon day heat.
The bullets spit from the guns worn upon their hips,
The slower one will surely fall,put dirt upon his lips.
The normal day in a small western town with no law,
The last one dissapeared,somethin no one saw.
Copyright © Charles Ruble | Year Posted 2010