by John Pillsbury
He was lean and lanky- not an ounce of fat
He had a handlebar mustache and a stetson hat
His eyes were dark and wary- a sixshooter on his side
There were eight notches on his gun- i wondered if eight had died
He sauntered to the bar, gave the keep an icy stare
He said "bring the best in the house and leave the bottle there"
He paid, poured and drank all with his left hand
His right was always near his gun- ready to make a stand
The patrons were all nervous- this was a friendly place
As they looked at the cowboy they saw death there on his face
They all sat there quietly- afraid to raise his ire
Afraid that he would spin around, draw his gun and fire
Two fellas walked in the bar- both were big and strong
One said to the crowd "Don't worry, nothin's wrong"
They motioned to the cowboy- he left the bar with them
They all piled in the van of the county sanitarium.