UNTIL THE LAST DROP
It seems fitting, in this wicked day and age,
to add a host more sins to my journal - a scribbled, tattered, written page.
Time is running out, and my friends have all gone off;
now all they can do is stand and stare from afar,
and most of 'em even jeer and scoff.
Bullets used to fly, and fleas by the dozen used to die,
a deserving end to any cause.
I killed a man once, 'cos his nose rang out too loud,
and I hated the fat bastard’s snores.
A scoundrel, I have been, handsome, fast, and downright bloody mean,
waiting in line for my plain pine box.
Knowing my luck, and not giving a flying fu*k,
I’ll end up with sores, and the unsightly pox.
‘High Noon’, they say, is the best time of day,
to meet thy Maker, whilst married to a Quaker,
and to meet danger, head on.
Personally, I prefer early sunrise, when the sun’s in their eyes,
and I shoot them plum centre, right between their quivering thighs.
Let’s see if they can then walk straight, when I deal them a double eight,
with a lucky six in my chamber, I won’t hesitate.
With my back to the wall,
I’ll smile to the last, as they all take a fall.
I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t try,
to sixty-nine a cheap whore.
At best you will get a moment of joy,
and the stage will have then been set.
Best to bide your time,
and wait for the right girl,
thus avoiding a life-time of pain, and ultimate regret.
Time for another whiskey, one which is good, strong, and gold.
The I’ll look for another whore,
the cheapest in store,
to fondle, grip, kiss, and hold.
Looks like the last drop of life has gone,
from my gun, my bottle, and my blood.
My head’s hurting now, must have been that last cow,
the one with the cross-eyed stare,
and the nose that looked like crud.
One last bullet needs to find one last heart,
but failing that - I’ll aim a well-timed fart.
I will go out in style, minus the dust, sick, and bile,
determined to outlast this last, damnable mile.
Here comes a guy, poncho, cigar, and all…
if I play my cards right, he’ll be heading for a fall.
“Hey turd breath!”, I yell to him , as I eye the saloon quim.
His gun has been drawn, before I can reach,
he’s a quick bastard - a mean sonovabitch…
his pistol spits lead, as if at a whim.
I heard the shot, and smelled the blood,
but the blood wasn’t coming from the hole that it should.
It was my hole, and it shouldn’t have been bleeding,
I suspect it’s a Doc, that I’ll now be needing.
It was coming from my heart, beating, still warm,
as I saw the sunrise for the last time,
and said welcome, to the dawn.
I got it in the heart, he was as quick as a cat,
straight in, like an arrow, well-aimed…drat!
The last drop is almost gone, and the undertaker is near,
by the smell of Cologne, I can tell he is queer.
"Adios, amigo, I struggle to say…,
as he takes my measurements, to see me on my way.
I’m almost gone…never knew it could be like this,
lying dying on a floor, covered in sick, spit and piss.
Adios, turds", I want to shout,
while I jangle my last spur.
Then I yell, and I cry, that I don’t want to die,
and then ‘Amen’ it with an urghhhhhh!!!
Try as I might, not to give up the fight,
the last drop falls, and so beckons the night…