Chick

Chick was thought to be dead for about a year,
So of course, when he entered, there was no cheer.
On Gam’s pale face—fear, before he moved his hand,
But Chick was much faster in his fierce command,
And Gam, sly Gam, sly bushwacking dirty Gam,
Felt a bullet tear his gut before he drew,
Felt the agony of justice tear him through,
Saw the unpitying eyes and the whistling mouth
Of the man he’d left for dead away down south.
Then he keeled over and fell to the floor,
While Chick turned around and walked out the door.

You have heard the tales of that man of the west,
How he routed the outlaws out of their nest,
How he stood for justice and fought for the right
Of a man to live honest all day and all night.
You have heard of that star, that though shiny was bent,
Having stopped a bullet some bad man had sent,
But I doubt that you know that Chick was not grim,
Never went to church, never sang he a hymn.
He always was whistling a light-hearted song
‘Bout everything’s right and nothing is wrong,
And sometimes he sang it just as he drew,
And another sly killer felt holes coming through,
And sometimes he whistled it right at the end,
When one more banditto found death was his friend.

Now Chick’s looking skyward from under the ground;
He’d lived him so long that his heart wasn’t sound,
But the killers and outlaws will still hear his song
Of everything’s right and nothing is wrong,
For my name is Sparrow, and Chick was my Pa,
And I keep on whistling as justice I draw.

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