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The gunslinger
stumbled out of the sun,
gun clutched to his side,
eyes tired but wide,
said to the bartender,
“Give me your worst.” |
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 |
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The songsinger
shivered in from the cold,
looking old and worn out,
too weak to shout,
said to the bartender,
“Dying of thirst.” |
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The bartender
checked again his supply;
with no lie on its face
an empty, disgraced
glass bottle replied,
“You’re not the first.” |
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“It’s hot out there,”
said the gunslinger then,
“Hundred-ten with no doubt.
Hell of a drought,”
said to the bartender,
“Don’t you hold out.” |
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“I’m frozen solid,”
the songsinger added,
“These padded shoes are wet.
What do you bet
pneumonia will break me,
put me in debt?” |
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“Poor gunslinger,”
said bartender sadly,
“so madly you must drink,
afraid I think
whiskey will not satisfy—
you want my blood.” |
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“And songsinger,”
said bartender, turning,
“Your yearning heart won’t heal
until you feel
the ground beneath your feet,
your toes in mud.” |
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So one shot him,
and then drank up what fell
from the shell, dark and red,
leaving him dead.
The other left his shoes
and barefoot fled. |
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