Just Another Day In The Wild West: A Poem

June 23, 2014 at 7:22 pm (Entertainment, Humour, Poetry) (, , , , , , , , )

Just Another Day In The Wild West: A Poem

He rode on a horse this man with no name
just a stranger not looking for fame
he rode into town
wearing a frown
this man who shot a circus clown.
Barnum said a sucker was born every minute
but he would not be cuckolded and take it.
He found the carnival clown in bed with his wife
so he shot him with a gun ending his life.

For murder they hang a man
so he got on his horse and ran
so he rode and rode
passing many a toad
this desert had many
and much sand a’ plenty.

He saw the sign for the town
as his horse sniffed the ground
so he headed that way
to get him some hay.

He looked around for signs of the livery stable
this stranger who was a living fable
The gunslinger who had shot and killed a circus clown
and did it while the poor snook’s pants were down.

The town appeared deserted as he rode along
not even in the saloon was there wine or song
where was everyone?
wondered this son of a gun.

Everyone was hiding behind closed doors
lying down crouched to their floors
for if this man could easily kill a circus performer
then he could easily kill you, Gramps and Uncle Homer.

There was only one man out on the streets
Wild Bill Hickok eating some sweets
Now Wild Bill had been particularly fond of this clown
he gave candied apples to the kids in this town.

As the stranger approached him, Wild Bill said,
“You be the fellow who shot the clown dead?”.
“Why?” The stranger spit into the wind, “is there a price on my head?”.
Wild Bill emptied his gun and filled him full of lead.

They buried the stranger on the outskirts of town
his epitaph read, He made death of a clown.

-A narrative poem
written by Christopher
Saturday June 21st

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Just Another Day and Night In The Wild West?

July 3, 2011 at 1:44 pm (Horror, Short stories, Short Story, The Supernatural) (, , , , , , , , , , , , )

Sheriff Cecil Cartwell proudly looked over the graves of the Boot Hill Cemetery.

The Boot Hill Cemetery wasn’t where they planted regular folk like the townspeople might say.

Regular folk were planted in the town cemetery.

No, Boot Hill was reserved for outlaw gunslingers, ne’er do wells, the tough guy bandits of the Wild West.

And Sheriff Cecil Cartwell had shot and killed them all.

All 32 of them.

That now lay dead and buried in the cemetery.

At Boot Hill.

Given the boot by Sheriff Cecil Cartwell.

Sheriff Cartwell got on top of his Pinto horse Kiss My Grass and rode on back into town.

He stopped off at The Wild Horse Saloon and had himself a whisky.

Then he went back to the sheriff’s office and slept the rest of the day.

At 6 P.M. he went to Kate’s Dining Hall and had something to eat.

When he left Kate’s Dining Hall at 7 P.M. a stage coach rode into town.

A well-dressed black man got out of the coach.

Sheriff Cartwell wondered if he was one of the freed slaves from the Civil War that had been over some 11 years now and was coming to make his home in the American West.

But Sheriff Cartwell heard the man speaking perfect French.

He reckoned not many of the slaves in the American South could speak perfect French.

Sheriff Cartwell walked on down the street.

A defiant looking 16-year-old blonde girl in a long blue dress blocked the street in front of him.

“One of these nights, you’re going to get yours for shooting my pa dead,” the girl spat at him.

It was Daisy Durkins- the daughter of Dukehart Durkins one of the West’s most notorious outlaws- and one of the 32 who now lay dead and buried in Boot Hill Cemetery- shot and killed by yours truly- Sheriff Cecil Cartwell.

Sheriff Cartwell grabbed the bratty blonde, threw her across his knee and spanked her. Fifty good whacks across her backside with his firm powerful hands.

He left her in the dusty street and continued home.

At midnight, the deputy came pounding on his door.

“Sheriff Cartwell, Sheriff Cartwell,” the deputy screamed, “there’s some sort of trouble going on up at Boot Hill Cemetery”.

Sheriff Cartwell ran to the town livery stable, got on top of his horse Kiss My Grass and rode off in the direction of Boot Hill.

He noticed a group of people standing around.

“Disperse in the name of the law,” Sheriff Cartwell commanded.

The people turned.

They were all men.

Dead men.


With vacant eyes and soulless expressions, the corpses raised their arms and headed in Cartwell’s direction.

Watching the spectacle was the well-dressed black man who spoke perfect French.

Standing alongside him was the beautiful blue eyed blonde haired Daisy Durkins in her pretty turquoise blue dress still rubbing her sore and well-spanked bottom from the spanking she had received at Sheriff Cartwell’s hands earlier this evening.

The corpses pulled Sheriff Cartwell off his horse Kiss My Grass and then tore him to pieces eating what was left of him.

All that was left of Sheriff Cartwell was a single ear.

Daisy Durkins picked up the ear and buried it in a grave.

Grave #33 of Boot Hill.

The black man who spoke perfect French handed her his card and addressed her in perfect English, “Should you need me again, my lady.”

The card read, BARON SAMEDI Voodoo Practitioner, Port-au-Prince, Haiti.

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