Long Six shooter Poems
Long Six shooter Poems. Below are the most popular long Six shooter by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Six shooter poems by poem length and keyword.
...He spotted Jones, and three other rough men,
digging at the ground beneath a large spruce.
Jones was grousing, “I know it’s buried somewhere,
if if it’s not here, I’ll beat it out of that youth!”
It was them Elias spurred his horse on,
emerging from behind a smallish grove,
they all spun and saw him, pistols ready,
said Elias, “I had wondered…now I know.
“Why a criminal could care much for me,
they say there is no honor among thieves,
you didn’t care for you old pardner’s son,
you just though that I might have what you need.”
Trigger Jones stood up with a vicious grin,
said,” Well god damn, if took you long enough.
Who would’ve thought the preacher would buy the land
where old Kerwin used to hide all his stuff.
“I’d hoped you could tell me, show us the loot,
that’s why I bothered toying with your head,
but I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way,
if you know, speak, or I’ll shoot you dead.”
Elias just laughed, “I would never help you
even if I knew, don’t you understand?
You call me Kerwin, but my name is Jensen,
my father raised me an honorable man.”
Jones just said and said, “Well ain’t you a daisy.
I guess you’ll die a stone’s throw from your home.”
Elias just smirked back, said, “Do you think
I was fool enough to ride out on my own?”
At these words six others rode into view,
surrounding Jones and all his bandit scum,
the sheriff led them, six shooter in hand,
barked, “You all throw up your hands, or you’re done.”
Jones looked like he might make trouble for them,
but around him his men threw up their arms,
and the old crook realized there was no escape,
he dropped his pistol, saved himself from harm.
There were rewards on all the bandit’s head,
the sheriff rode off quite happy that day.
Elias rode back to his home relieved,
no longer could anyone doubt his ways.
For all the past, his temper, his worries,
none could ever now doubt he had honor,
he wasn’t bound by a bandit long dead,
and now could live the life that he deserved.
Recall the Days of Yesteryear
Inspired by Lynn Yawn
By Franklin Price
1/15/2016
Recall the days of yesteryear
And the fun times that you had
Watching cowboys on the silver screen
Could tell the good one from the bad
The good one rode a horse so fine
Always healthy and well groomed
Could easily run the bad guy down
No doubt that he was doomed
The good one was the quickest draw
Which the bad one could not stand
Before the bad one got a bullet off
His six shooter shot from his hand
The good one wore a hat of white
The bad one wore the black
The good one sent the bad one
Off to jail not coming back
The good one had some talent
Could pick guitar and croon
Would serenade the ladies
And the cows beneath the moon
Those were the days of wonder
When with popcorn in your hands
You watched your cowboy hero
Ride across the western lands
Gone today that singing cowboy
But he's still within your mind
Riding off into the sunset
Where the clouds are silver lined
The cowboy rides like a noble lord
across the dusty ground,
his six-shooter is his scepter,
a Stetson is his crown.
His saddle is a leather throne
from which he can survey
all his four-legged denizens
on far mountain and plain.
His kingdom is every shifting,
blazing trails across earth,
he rarely owns the herd and yet
he’ll fight for what it’s worth.
The children look upon him and
see a model for themselves.
Half-mythic, they see a hero
whose legend does them well.
Women look and see their fantasy,
with whom they long to ride,
to live as a cowboy’s sweet-heart,
forever by his side.
Men turn their stare to the cowboy,
see what they hope they could be,
a pioneer calling the shots,
living a life that’s free.
At rodeos they ride big bulls
that would break our spines,
by what power are they able
to last eight second’s time?
On silver screens, in wilderness,
against evil they go.
They win the day and half the time
their names we never know.
They’ve stood for all America,
one hundred fifty years,
through chaos, war, and damn hippies,
and yet they are still here.
Keeping their long and lonely watch
in weather hot and cool,
the cowboy rides like a noble lord,
Forever may he rule!
Just to the left of Texas
In the valley of beyond
Is where sanity up and left us
Deciding it was best to move along
Hitched up horses and a wagon
Six shooter strapped to its side
Passing through all the Wild West cackling
Knew this would be a rooting tooting rough ride
Because it doesn't take long once sanity's gone
For the "In" to move right in
So it made its escape for its own sake
Not daring to come back here again
It turned and waved from the horizon
As the Loony Tunes theme music played
Where you could hear a slight voice in the distance
Th-Th-Th-Th-Th-That's all folks...have a nice day!
~ Mary Fields…
Was born into slavery somewhere back east
she thought it was Hickman County, Tennessee
Growing up, she had learned how to read and write
though she'd spent her childhood in captivity
Came to Montana to live life as a nun
but learned she was better suited for fight'n
She stood six foot tall and weighed two hundred pounds
wore a six shooter she could draw fast as light'n
She had arms and hands looked like battering rams
she towered o'er most cowboys here in the west
She smoked cigars and chawed a tobacco plug
a flask of whisky hidden under her dress
She came to fame one day when a green cowpoke
said that no black woman could be his better
She'd laid him out flat when he went for his gun
Mary shot him before he could clear leather
In her left hand she could hold the reigns of six
of the orneriest horses you'd ever knew
while shooting a shotgun with the other hand
and could still keep them horses a runnin' smooth
She'd out shoot, out fight and out drink any man
Was mean, stubborn, cantankerous and scary
Specially if you was a meaning to steal
from a wagon driven by Stagecoach Mary
the streets are scarred for good and we know it
after the hits of untamed hearts
after this abstract damage of cyclic returnings
there's a window in my chest
a sight of iron garden and crystal steam
where colour of poplars recalls
moss in the living room
and her veins in the dark
the skies are striped of equinox sabbath
over the cities full of empty people
cities full of mannequins
over the valleys of sordid poppies
perfumed mists and magnetic trees
as my shoes walk around the moonlit woods
through cobblestone plains, by mythic fields
the war of kisses rages in gravel pits
on days like these
these octagon days
and there's a storm in the kitchen sink
there's debris for dinner
the orchestra of germs in a room of dahlia
invokes all the nymphomaniac angels
all air rats and arachnid armies
with passion of cold-blooded lovers
oh, what a circus!
that's why my luggage is haunted
in floodlands, ready to depart
for the taxidermy heaven
for I'm the king of the sandcastle
just a smoke child on a paper planet
with glass floors and concrete shoes
and yellow lorries in umbrella lakes
with my brain lantern and pet mallacoderm
the rabid rooster will guide my way
down the bronze boulevard
with chocolate six-shooter in my hand
only because the streets are scarred by our love
and we know it