The Last True Sheriff of the Wild West
He was old and haggard, in the year nineteen twenty something
A tall lanky old man, with a worn out hat and a rusty ring
His squint blues eyes pulled together the wrinkles upon his face
With an expressionless gaze, that told of another time and place
Half the day he sat in his front porch rocking in his chair
Before taking long walks amid the warm breeze of the Mid-Western air
While tipping his hat to every passerby; friend and stranger
Wandering his way to town with no expectation of danger
A little whisky and a friend for company finished his day’s mission
Eager to head back to his shack under the laws of Prohibition
Once in a while a group gathered around him to drink some beer
And to hear him tell old tales and adventures of the American frontier
It followed him everywhere he went, the far distant past
As far back when he was a drifting gunslinger, young but not yet fast
As a cadet in the civil war, he properly learned how to use a gun
Fighting in such battles as Baton Rouge and the second Bull Run
Fought bravely and the goverment rewarded him with a land claim
Headed west dodging every arrow from every angry Indians aim
Settled among hard working folks in the middle of nowhere
They made him sheriff and by the gun and bible he did swear
He once crossed paths with Jesse James and Billy the kid
He came close to be the one to end their gun slinging greed
But he rode night and day to keep the law all over the Western map
Rode one time in the same posse with the legendary Wyatt Earp
He put away many outlaws and stood to watch many hang
He was feared by every bank robber and every criminal gang
No cattle rustler and train robber ever crossed his territory
For many had tried before and many had ended up sorry
He never settled down and he never took a wife
There was no place for a woman or children in his kind of life
His first and only love was keeping the laws of the land
As far as the northern plains to the great Rio Grande
When he retired he became a farmer of sheep and crops
Behind him were the days of tying men’s necks with ropes
But all those countless bullets he put into faceless bodies
Could not be forgotten by engaging in retirement hobbies
So one dawn when he woke up with a nightmare and ill health
He knew well it was the day he was going to draw his last breath
So with a gun in his hand he rode his horse towards one last sunset
Just to lay motionless upon the land he loved, whisky on hand, one cartridge spent
Copyright © Jack Nganga | Year Posted 2023
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