Guitar Gringo
He stepped down from the stagecoach kicking dust up with his boot
He stood a while, he lacked a smile, his teeth gripped his cheroot
His Stetson it was thick with dust, his guitar case was too
He looked around this downbeat town; found no man that he knew
He’d travelled to this lawless town of which he’d gotten word
Two preachers vanished here before, but he won’t be the third
For he had brought his guitar which, to praise the Lord, he plays
And when he strums those guitar strings, the congregation sways
Had this town been a Wild West town, he’d know which way to go
But how does one say ‘Hotel’, here in outback Mexico?
A man in a sombrero, three armed sidekicks in his wake
Sauntered up and told him to be gone for his own sake
“Hey, Cowboy, we don’t want no Gringo, messing up our town,
Take yourself and your guitar before we take you down.”
The preacher said, “I’ll play for you and if you love the tune
You’ll point me to the chapel and the rowdiest saloon.”
He’d travelled to this lawless town of which he’d gotten word
Two preachers vanished here before, but he won’t be the third
For he had brought his guitar which, to praise the Lord, he plays
And when he strums those guitar strings, the congregation sways
He reached down for his guitar case, the Mexicans took aim
And with a little slight of hand, the preacher did the same
But nothing grins as wide as when a bandit thinks he’s won
And when four guns are facing one the job’s as good as done
So was it skill or was it God who played a helpful part
When each of those four bandits took a bullet to the heart
The sheriff, if you’d call him that, said, “Have you got a name?”
The preacher said, “I’ll tell you Sunday if it’s all the same.”
The sheriff, having none of it, said, “Tell me who you are.”
He said, “I’m just a gringo with my god and my guitar.
But men of God preceded me and got no help from you.
So clear your desk, I am not me… I am those other two
He’d travelled to this lawless town of which he’d gotten word
Two preachers vanished here before, but he won’t be the third
For he had brought his guitar which, to praise the Lord, he plays
And when he strums those guitar strings, the congregation sways
Copyright ©
Terry Flood
|