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Code Of The West Horseman approaching forms a distance image this vague vision is distorted by dry desert heat slowly he comes closer to the town of treachery horse in soapy sweat, trudges down the street Rough bearded face shaded by a weathered hat starring eyes, that penetrate like piercing arrows tall stoic stature radiating complete confidence he dismounts and lashes the reigns to its post Cautiously stares down the wooden walkways clanging like cymbals, his spurs announce him flipping a silver dollar to a nearby livery boy to feedbag and water his careworn chestnut pal Paused at the doors, then quickly to the bar he slammed down his last gold piece, whiskey glass in hand, he hears a familiar hammer click, spins swiftly and clears leather with his Colt 45 The ear bursting blast bring death in stride silences all sound and the gaffed gunman His blood draining through the floor planks stranger stood true to the code of the west |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Dellena Rovito On Date: 2007-11-05 21:21:38
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.62500
Paul,
I think all the gunfighting was glamorized and romanticized.
The days of the ok corral were difficult.
But I say as long as they holocaust the Native American, the white man got what he deserved.
Your poem reminded me of Gunsmoke!
The horse, saloon, whiskey, and death.
A good job maybe you're a reincarnate of a gunfighter.
dellena