. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Sunday, December 27, 2009

Ballad for a Fallen Cowboy

There was a quirky cowboy they all called Cole,
Used to bang around with Misses McNoll.

He lived his life making enemies of friends,
When the bridges were burned he cared not for amends.

Most people he crossed let him go on his way,
His guns had put more than one in the grave.

Until one day somebody up and gave him the slip,
Pushed a three inch blade deep under his ribs.

Most men in most places would have been slain,
Except that Cole had just done a half pound of cocaine.

He twirled and grabbed the man’s neck like a trout,
Squeezed so tight he pulled his jugular out.

Blood covered the floor in gallons and gallons,
And sprayed onto the ceiling like the man was a fountain.

Cole’s face was a grinning mask covered in crimson,
For the wound in his side he had gotten redemption.

No one stirred in the stillness of that keep,
All eyes were on Cole as he stood breathing deep.

He looked into the face of each man in the room,
I have to kill again, he said, and kill again soon.

You’ll do no such thing, came a voice from the door,
And Misses McNoll stepped into the hall (and some blood on the floor).

Every witness there stood frozen in fright,
In Cole’s crazy eyes each saw the end of his life.

You’ll not leave this tavern alive, said the blonde-headed gal,
There ain’t no way and there ain’t no how.

She pulled up past her thigh the hem of her dress,
And there in a bejeweled holster sat a silver pistol at rest.

Wrinkles ran across the length of Cole’s brow,
This was not how he imagined this scene to play out.

No woman of mine draws faster than me,
I’ve lain with you, bitch, and I know your speed.

Misses McNoll let out a sweet little laugh,
Those who were there thought her equally mad.

No man alive knows every girl’s secrets,
I AM just as fast and draw iron just as frequent.

Poor Cole, Do you really think you’re the only lover I have?
That dead man on the floor is he who’s been with me last.

An explosion of rage made him all the more quick,
As his hand went like lightning for the gun at his hip.

Because he had their attention not a one saw her move,
But when Cole’s head exploded they all certainly knew.

He had been fast – the fastest they’d seen,
Yet the better gunslinger stood in the midst of the smoke screen.

Misses McNoll flipped her weapon back to her side,
Let down her dress and bid the room a goodnight.

But just before leaving, she had yet one last thing to say,
Turning, she batted her eyelashes in her sensual way.

If you men haven’t already noticed, she said,
There’s now two open slots to fill in my bed.


1 comment:

  1. ah, a beautiful traditional wetstern christmas story.