He rode a metronome, a-saddled high, burdened with lead,
Weeks a-rode from home, September sky unpleasant red,
His head a heavy tome, a desp’rate guy in want of bed,
A dirt encrusted dome, black-dripping eye, and close to dead.
His hoss, a steady mare, relentless marching in its sway,
A’course, not heard no-where neither a whinny nor a neigh,
A tossin’ of its hair is all it ever had to say,
And limp across its rear, the bloodied bounty of the day.
He met with sister silence in the dust that marked the town,
Regretful of the violence in the bust that just went down,
He served with due reliance to the Sheriff’s beckon’ frown,
As’ta answer with defiance, he’d-a hung, and whipped and drown.
They pull’d the body’s collar and it hit the lawmen’s stoop,
A pocketful of dollars hand-to-handed from the group,
The rider want-a holler, but his lungs were thick-as-soup,
To saloon a-rode the brawler, need-of restin’ and recoup.
His nightmare-riddled sleep, cut short to no longer unfold,
In dark, and gravel-deep, a voice came strong of will and bold,
To the trigger’s metal creep, “Ya gone and killed yer brother cold.”
For what you sow, you reap, and so my tale has been told.
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