– Lamb Posse is what tops the bill this a.m., Sheriff,
Plus your shot of choice, plus a slice of pie, pecan or rhubarb, you pick.
– I’ll skip the pie, thank ye, and have a beer back instead o’.
– Don’t know that I can swing that, bud.
– Swing it, brother, swing, you dozy cull,
Slapping down my sidearm on the counter, loudie-like, to make a point.
A head or two beginning to turn my way
But one gander at that big silver gun barrel, swiveled right back.
There was a hunnert mile of high dry plain on every side of us out there,
Heat slithering up your back , then garrotting you about noon,
Like faux wild west Espana: rattlesnake maracas, bad teeth,
Squirrelly red-eyed night varmints, ruined old battlements
Ever so often, a day or so’s journey on horseback between,
’Stead of our own gas station/convenience store lash-ups …
Talking days of yore Espana, storybook fare, swords, infidels, history …
But we don’t do history, never have done, none to be had or made use of.
What we do got is now, right here, pucker up that brain and have a lookie-see:
Horizon to horizon, nada amigo, before or after, just the law, and the law is me.