Murderin' Milt's last showdown

T'was Saint Patrick's on the prairie at the Shamrock Patch Saloon,
When Murderin' Milt met Blackthorn in Hondo at high noon,
Milt, he was a killer, eighteen notches on his guns,
Blackthorn was a magician, a performer out for fun.

Murderin' Milt had made his name plugging cowhands and sodbusters,
Knifing pulpiteers and shopkeeps, cracking skulls with knuckledusters,
He was mean and sharp and full of hate when he grabbed the lean magician,
Dragged him out into the dusty street. Aimed to send him to the mortician.

The folks all watched in horror as the outlaw hauled him out,
But the magician seemed in charge of things, though flailing all about,
Murderin' Milt was twice his size and throwing 'round his weight,
But the conjurer was all over him as he went to meet his fate.

Milt's spurs were jangling from his boots as he faced the magic man,
Who stood there in top hat and suit with his magic wand in hand,
And didn't seem the least perturbed when the outlaw glared intense,
When Milt slapped leather, Blackthorn just laughed, did nothing in defense.

As his six-gun cleared the holster, and then as Milt took point,
He found there in his horny fist a greasy hambone joint,
Which he'd yanked right from his gun belt, much to the crowd's amusement,
The meat slipped and flipped into the dirt - and Milt was all confusement.

Milt went then for his cross-draw, and when he gripped the contents firm,
He crushed a rotten apple there and squarshed within it worms,
The magic man ignored him, and dusted off his hat,
Which infuriated Murderin' Milt, who'd had enough of that.

So Milt ripped out his derringer. But it was gone as well,
From its hide at his belt buckle, he pulled a tinkly, little bell,
By now the crowd was screaming. They was laughing hard and fast,
So Milt drew his knife, and it was real. Then came the ringing blast.

As the Bowie flipped up to a roof and stuck there in the wood,
The magician held two Navy Colts, and one was smoking good,
"My guns!" Milt screamed. "You've stole them! I'll skin yore magic pelt!"
"Not today," the magician smiled at him. "Look at the hand you're dealt."

There sure'nuff was a bloody mess where Milt had helt his steel,
The bullet's smack on knife and bone had shocked away the feel,
There, hanging from it's bloody stump by a slender strip of hide
Was one of Milt's shot fingers, with two missing by its side.

The awful sight of mangled paw, just the pinkie still intact,
Brought forth a gape of horror, and before Milt could react,
The magician swung his magic wand, a sturdy branch of oak,
He pounded on the outlaw - and all the while was cracking jokes.

When he'd finished up the beating, and Milt lay all insensible,
- Which was fine with all the town folk for Milt was reprehensible -
Applause broke out, they screamed and cheered. They had a laughing fit,
The magician bowed and passed his hat. They stuffed money into it.










Blackthorn rode at nightfall. It was time to disappear,
He'd made his hat Saint Patrick's Day, now he'd roam more wild frontier,
At the well he threw the snake's fangs in, heard Milt's pistols splash below,
Patrick's Cross had run the serpents out -
and Blackthorn's wand had laid one low.