Sing a song of six-gun,
a pocket full of hair.
If you hope to survive the night,
you'd better learn to swear:
"Play some fuckin' country!"
and scam another pie --
most of us have done this before.
The Guns have done it thrice.
Gather round us kiddos,
we'll keep you safe and warm;
slide the strings of a Telecaster guitar
and mind the swinging arms.
1 comment:
{Is This for Me?}
At 4 AM your time, you call me a whore.
I am asleep in my saddle
at Dead Horse Point
seduced by exposure
and the Colorado;
the rolling plumes of dust
like children's hands when they tell a story.
You should behave,
possibly in Texas,
or ask that girl to dance—
breath heart-heavy hard as clay
and hips watered down for
underage patrons.
So swear and swing your saloon doors.
The smell of linseed oil
on the flat of your hand
like a fucking man.
While I watch the sky inside—
my mind can’t dream on its back—
of comets and mustangs
and boots worn to lovers and
a swallow of Beam the depth
of the canyon that keeps me
from water.
But I can’t leave.
You said you wrote something for me
and left it here.
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