The wicked west,  

A prickly hope, 

A leather vest,

The crying of souls. 

Pitched-up tents, 

smoke rings above, 

slow laments and

self-torment, 

lines these plains, 

runs through its veins. 

You stroll into town, frowns all around, 

the swoosh of a jacket, 

the shimmer of a pistol, 

the sinister smile of a stonemason.

A small town, a smaller duel, 

pointless beyond the saloon and bank, 

beyond the drifting clouds and dusty hills,

where men chose to kill and 

waste their free will

on trivial feuds, bad attitudes,

against blood-red sunsets 

and the chirping of insects. 

The town was never the problem, 

it was the outlaws with iron dangling on their hips, 

cigarettes between their lips, 

the egos they felt they had to prove 

to those who stood in their way. 

The barrel smokes and the devil cackles, 

he’s tied you at the boots, cuffed you in shackles, 

as the smoke swirls and the dust unites,

I truly see no hope in sight

when I hear the trigger click.