Ballad of a Weekend Gunfighter
I've died in dusty parking lots,
my frock coat covered with dirt
even fell on a sharp rock one time
… I'll tell you that one really hurt.
Once I died in nice soft grass
laying there playing out the skit,
but there were bugs living in there
I really ain't a-tellin' where I was bit.
When I'm down there on a hot day
and my role is over and done,
I'll wish for my hat o'er my face to
save me from that hot burnin' sun.
I can't move, I can't breathe,
scratch or even twitch
all the time I'm just thinking
hurry up … I'm startin' to itch.
The others have finished their parts
we're just waiting for the applause,
I keep on reminding myself I know
in my heart it's for a good cause.
Finally the skit is over and
I get to come back alive,
but my knees are popping louder than
all the rounds fired from my forty-five.
As I make my way out slowly to
meet and mingle with the crowd,
I bear the pain in my back
and trying keep from groaning out loud.
But, then it really becomes worth all the pain
when a small boy pushes his way through,
comes up and shakes my hand and says
"Can I have my picture taken with you?"