The Man Called Jeremy - and other Western Fables


Another tale of syphilis, clap, gum-sores, spittin’, cursing, cigar-chewin’, well-aimed bullets, dust, saddle sores, grits, and a hearty plate of beans, to help the wind blow the sage-brush on its way.

On with the tale…


The Cowboy was a Greek, who cares the creed, the breed unknown,
When a man casts his seed, the ground is unsown.
His gun was huge and so was his nose,
Where he decided to crap, so then grew a rose.

His seed was pure gold, a tale often told;
when miners were dirty, and whores were aged 30,
and aged before they’d even been rolled.

He was mean, do you know what I mean, a dirty turd of a guy;
and if you crossed him, he’d fix you - plumb centre - right in the friggin’ eye.

He roamed the land, his dream unfulfilled,
to add notches for all the dirty scoundrels, that he had so coldly killed.

Buffalo turds happened, and he was always there,
forever the silent footstep, treading stealthily up the stair.

We begin to wonder where this man would have been,
if he were not so goddamn dark, slick, handsome, brown-eyed, and mean.

A tough hombre we cannot doubt,
despite his background,
and his twelve-inch ginormous snout.

Truth be told, this man did not rest in peace until his spirit said “Oh, Spit!”
“I’m dead, I’m gone…oh, suck on my hide, and taste my leather whip”.

So he went for the whore, the cheapest, in store, and enjoyed it while it did last.
She tasted good, as any woman should, and the price - he never asked.

Here lies a man, a mean 'un to the end, and a man forever alone;
poor sad soul, for all his many sins committed,
never more to ultimately atone.

“Aw, nuts, and bugger”. I’m sure, he would have said,
If his last Will and Testament, was not propping up the out-house shed…

Here lies a man, a man all alone…


Shananigan’s Shoes

I met an Irish fellow, ‘Shananigan’ was his name.
He believed in stealing whatever he could,
and he did his ‘doo-doos’, where nobody really should.

He gave his life and his teeth, for one last drink,
but the folks wouldn’t serve him a drop;
because of his dirty attire, and that flea-bitten, damnable awful stink,
and the pet that he affectionately called ‘plop’.

Slick, happy trigger-finger, the one that he used to use,
sometimes to gain, but most times, dealt to lose.
Guess he should have thought out all the options, for a good man so able to choose,
Glad I’m in my comfort zone, and that I’m not in ‘Shananigan’s’ shoes.


Okay, I’m an old bastard, and I don’t mind admitting to it.
I still get excited, though, by a flash of frilly knickers,
and a double dose of tactile wit.

Whiskey, gin, vodka, rum and toasted bread,
goes like a streak of lightening, straight to my aching head.

Feeling old now, so not too much time for speaking crap.
Think I’ll take another sip of Tequila, have a dirty thought, and then I’ll nap.

Cheap booze and bakes beans, sheer dynamite to the arse;
if I get taken short, I’ll just wipe my smile upon the grass.

Too many lonely memories, and too much lonely thinking time,
I think I’ll pop another cork…a double whiskey to end the rhyme.

Waiting for a call, from she who has cheated on me…
I never thought that it would end like this,
being laughed at by that red-haired slut, called ‘Queen B’.

Think I’ll try a whore tonight - the price, it seems too high;
I’ll probably pay, and have my say…but in truth, I’m very shy.

Double-dealers, liars, cheats, and wife stealers,
eating up the air that we breathe;
Low-life, rotten scuds, waiting to deceive, while some of us are gullible,
and a few of us still choose and dare to believe.

My hair has now gone from black to white,
in everyday terms, overnight.
Amigo, I feel old, with no end to my misery in sight;
and I’m sincerely hoping that I won’t live to see,
another cold, merciless, interminable night.

Blast and damn, the dawn’s here again,
and what a surprise, here comes the rain.
I thought ‘Hell’ was meant to be hot,
and not this God-forsaken piece of snot.

Crack another shot open, amigo,
and salute another day.
If there’s any Goddamn justice,
I’ll soon be on my way.

It would have been nice, to have once met a friend,
the kind that would stick, right to the bitter end.
But that never happened,
and now it never shall be,
I let everyone down…and most especially I let down me.

“Damn them all to hell!”,
my soul, it wants to yell;
I guess no-one else could stand my pace,
or perhaps it was the god-awful smell.

An old grumpy bastard, I now am,
and I can’t see any way out of this;
If no-one likes this, no problem, amigos, go on your merry way,
while I have one last rant at God,
and enjoy a last long, loving piss.


The End of Days seem to have arrived, all too damn soon,
I’m looking for the sun, but there’s only the moon.
Looking for warmth, but the freeze still marches on,
where the hell did I stumble, and where did I go wrong?

It seems to me, that greed is the thing, the order of the day,
and an honest heart is no longer the way.
Back-stabbing bitches, and neighbourhood snitches,
these are the ones who grasp it all.
Meanwhile, the ones who believed in the ultimate good of men,
are the poor bastards who eventually take that long, hard fall.

Cheating, lying, betrayal, and wealth,
the trash of the world always approaches in stealth.
They scheme and they plot, a means to destroy,
while they play with emotions, like a spoilt child with a toy.

Two-faced and rotten, stinking right to the core,
the filth that manipulates and plays with others;
How I now hate that black-hearted slut, that mean-eyed whore,
and I revile my good-for-nothing brothers.

It isn’t to hard to know how Christ must have felt on that night,
when Judas betrayed him, like a back-stabbing shite.
Darkness closes in, and everyone’s gone away,
leaving a man all alone, to endure another day.

I think I’ll open another beer, while I say “screw you!”, to the fear,
does anyone care, or can anyone even hear?
The seconds move on, from dusk to dawn,
I’ll greet my fate with two fingers, and probably a yawn.

Tears in the rain, nothing else to gain,
surely there’s got to be an end, to this God-awful pain.
Wondering now, why we bother at all,
while all the time, we are waiting for the call.

One day, hopefully not far away,
the last hour will come, and at last the sun will hold sway.
It is time to find out, if the road leads anywhere good,
so I’ll be on my way, as a man ultimately should.

Knowing my luck, there will be nothing there,
but, in the grand old scheme of things,
I don’t much really care.


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…


This is a tale of lead, blood, and fresh new holes, where holes have no damn right to be.
It was a time of lawlessness, and of downright buggery…for greed was the dish of the day.
If the Stranger set his eyes on you, then all you could do was pray.

And into this land of bullet-ridden horse dung, dust, sage-weed, tumble-weed, syphilis, open-sores, toothache, whores, flea-bitten scoundrels, and itchy red bits, rode a man - unlike any other man - for he was wearing a crimson-stained ‘French Duster’, smoked rolled buffalo dung, and answered to the name of ‘Jeremy’.

Mean as cactus spikes, and twice as nasty,
he could shoot the eyes, from a low-flyin’ bird;
He answered to many a derogatory name,
but he personally preferred ‘Jeremy…The Turd’.

Jeremy was - in Spaghetti terms, a complete, and utter bastardo, descended, from the Irish…Irish on one side, Mexican on the other, and Jeremy was far right in the middle. He was the turd of three Irish brothers… the first and second already having died in a stampede to the bar, for the cheapest, and dirtiest whore.

His brothers had always got the fringe discounts, and he’d always settled the score.

He carried his gun in a holster, and left his holster in a coffin, that he always asked a gravedigger to drag from town to town. When asked why this was so, he would always reply: “Because I’m a lazy, no-good sonovabitch…”

And, so word got around, that ‘Jeremy, the Turd’, was one tough, ball-breakin’ sonovabitch, to nail down.

They all lined up up…the Murphey’s, the McKennas, and even the good, the bad, and the ugly.
Try as they might, and many were lost in the fight, but none could bring him down.

And then one day, as chance would have it, a man named ‘Ringo’ rode through.
He tried his luck with Jeremy, one day, when the sun was behind his rear;
but a well-aimed fiery flame of red, saw this fancy chancer fall down dead,
no doubt filled with remorse, with regret, and fear.

The die had been cast, and the whisky was poured…and the air was heavy with lead.
Then into town, searching all around, came hombres, Sartana, Django, Joe, and Fred.

“Where’s Jeremy?”, chimed up one lone, and mean-spirited drawl.
A reply came back, from the rear of the shack: “In the can, with his pinewood friend, no doubt, havin’ a ball.”

The showdown was nigh, the sun was high, and Noon was right on time.

Contestants, please beware, and be sure to hold that mean-eyed stare;
for death can arrive, usually dead on time, and often with the very last chime.

The orchestra started playing, a slow waltz to pass the day;
a symphony, and a dance of death, for the bullets to lead the way.

Truth be known - and time will tell, that they all fled for home.
Jeremy, the Turd was victorious, because he was, in reality, ‘The Milky Bar Kid’,
and his milk was mercy mild.

In the Name of the Full fat, the semi-skimmed, and the semi-skimmed, his name was Jeremy…

“His name was Jeremy…and he rode into legend, saddle sores and grit…
This was a man who didn’t ever back down, and didn’t take no shit.”

“Did he care about the men that he’d slain, and so cold bloodedly killed?”
“Nope… not one hint of remorse, for the souls that he’d set free, or for all the blood that was spilled.”



“Dirty Bastardos”, says he!
While I fondled sweet lips, and kissed her elegant knee;
Beautiful shins, and high-class sass,
it pays to get pie-eyed, and then tumble head over heels,
straight on my big, fat ass…
how much longer will this hellish nightmare last?


Dust and sage-weed ain’t much to my taste,
seems like so much needless waste.
All that howling, and all that screaming,
makes it nigh impossible to tell reality from dreaming.

I see the night advancing on,
and how I wish that I were long gone,
down that well-trodden road to Hell.

It take a soul, with all to tell,
to know the stench of death,
and detest that familiar smell.

I still see the men that I have killed,
and I still smell the blood that I have spilled,
wondering when, or if, this will ever end.

Guess that I’ll keep on going, come wind, sun, rain, or snowin’,
facing all that comes my way;
Who knows, with the turn of a card, and with the devil on my side,
I may still make it, one day.
I can but only pray…


There’s a lot of time for quiet reflection,
when you age, and start recollecting,
the dreams that were once within your grasp;
I guess that I’ll be mourning those times forever more,
with my last defiant breath,
and one last dying gasp.

Seems like only yesterday,
when my heart was young and eager.
and I thought that I could win it all;
but as you descend, into the pit called Hell,
you scream and you shout,
and ask “what’s it all about?”,
as you give out one last rebel yell.

The last breath, it eventually comes to us all,
either today, tomorrow, or next year;
I can’t see the sense in hanging around,
when living and dying, they both bring equal fear.

Bring on the last breath, amigo,
I salute your persistence, my friend;
seems like from the day I was born,
you’ve been my one, my only,
a companion, right until the end…


Treading the lone trail, here I go again,
beating the same old track, through fiery furnace during the day,
while the moon yields cold, wind, and rain;
at this rate, I’d better keep on treadin’ the path,
lest I let go of my sense and sensibility,
and at worst, I go slowly insane.

Lonesome trail, damn, will you never end,
don’t you recognise me, buddy?
it’s me, your life-long, partner, and friend.

Same old ruts, and dried out guts,
and the same old cactus plants;
many a time I’ve spoken to my horse,
and many times he’s listened to my rants.

Same old tale, and same old prairie dust,
where in Hell is the next town;
I’ll keep on going, for now at least,
and make it yet, or bust.


Western folk-lore often knew 'em as ‘The Fat Bunch’.
In some towns they were also known as ‘The Tumpsters’, or ‘The Bigger than Average Gang’;
with hats too small, for their over-sized heads,
and well-rounded waistbands, that often went ‘twang!’

However, to most folks, they was known as ‘The Tum Bandits’,
fired up with lead, beans, whiskey and gunpowder;
Their stomachs were as big as a stuck, roasting pig,
and their crackling was all to die for, a rare piece of history,
and a tasty dish of hot chowder.

They robbed, and they stole, and when out on a roll,
they’d stop off for roasted steer, and a wee whiskey fill;
And when their horses gave out, with a one last snort through their snout,
these fat boys would begin to roll, their guts ready to spill.

Onwards, and upwards, but mostly downwards, the lads always said:
Till the day that old man thunder did come a calling, and laid the fat bunch flat-out dead.

They’d cracked so many safes, usually by sitting on them,
that their imprint was clearly known to the law;
It was easy to follow their trail,
open bean cans, and half-read mail,
and a deep growl in the distance, often likened to a snore.

Oh, Brother, they were fat,
and they left an impression wherever they sat;
it makes you wonder how their fathers ever even conceived,
or how they even began to begat.

For such a gang, so lazy and fat,
it wasn’t long before the law would catch up…
“Oh, drat!”

Caught in their beds, with their long-johns on, it wouldn’t be long before they were going for a song.

Bullets flying, and lard a frying,
smells like good cookin’ tonight, because the fat boys are slowly dying.

So they met their end, the infamous ‘Fat Bunch’…
I guess it doesn’t seem such a big deal now;
For today’s the day that we recall their infamy,
and tomorrow, their name spells lunch.

A Cacti Tale.

It’s name was ‘Sagios Griparporeous’, and it was a new species of cacti in the desert wild,
that attracted more than its fair share of attention;
From its kin, the spikey kind, he didn’t receive too warm a welcome,
who didn’t take to lightly to being called wrong, by a newbie child.

Cacti had a voice of their own, especially in the Old West;
and they were used to being passed by Indians, settlers, Irish, and all the rest.
They could cope with dust, and rain, and snow,
and they could even cope with drought.

But when this fine upstart, this brand new species, started sprouting his whys and wherebys,
he made enemies right from the start;
spikes out, all shades green,
time to bring down spikey boy, who thinks that he’s tough and mean.

And so, the battle of the cacti began, in the rays of the moon, until the next rising of the sun…

Who won, who knows, for the cacti, they all died.

The next day, the cacti were laid bare for all to see, a titanic battle, between young and old…
Does it matter, which one won overall,
when we all somehow destined, to one day take the fall?


Never mind clenching the reins,
or the saddle sores and pains,
just take me home, horse, just take me home.

There was never a better friend than you,
despite your fiery nature,
and your flea-bitten mane,
that forever stank, and always felt the same.

I think I’ll pass out of sight,
while the night gives way to the dawn;
Good mornin’ sunshine, I mutter with a whiskey-breath yawn.

Lost again at cards, last night…not a cent left in the World, to call my own.
Get me back to my shack, horse, and I’ll feed you grain that was never sown.
Too busy counting my losses,
and too anxious to fight the town bosses,
it took the best years out of me.

If Horse gets me home, I’ll take a short rest,
dig out my six-gun, take a swig of amber lightening,
then pin the star back upon my chest.

If I’m gonna go out fighting, I’ll bring them all tumbling down;
then I drink my fill, for the very last time,
and then burn that damnable town down to the ground.

Get me home, horse, get me home…


Ahead lies the end of my life’s ceaseless rotten trail,
with little or no hope left to cling on to,
and zero chance of a reprieve, or even a pitiful bail.

I took the easy option, and shot first, before I spoke;
blowing a dirty shyster’s head clean off, an unethical S.O.B,
with nothing to commend his whiskey-drenched soul,
for he was a vicious, nasty, low-down poke.

Now the law is chasing after me, through Hell’s doorway, and beyond:
And all my previous ‘buddies’ have deserted,
having severed the unbreakable outlaw bond.

Alone, and running, to escape life’s inescapable rule:
If you’re going to break the Goddamn law,
then, at least, make it slick, make it bloody as fiery Hell,
and keep it icy-cool.

A dust cloud is behind me,
and eternal fame, or flame, lies up ahead:
Damn and blast, by this day’s end,
I’ll either be drunk, renowned, or stone-cold dead.

Death awaits, so I shouldn’t keep it waiting,
I’ll spend so long in evading the inevitable,
that it will think I’m hesitating.

Bring on the headstone,
pile more soil upon the grave;
best pick a better soul than mine,
to pray for, sing, and save.

Goodbye life, and hello Hell…was that Heaven that I passed, on the way?
Every dog has it’s bone,
and every bastard has his way…

“Adios, amigos…”


Best to stay out of my way today,
'cos I’m feeling mean, weary, worn-out, and ornery, all the way.
Dreading soon to be greeting another useless day,
cursing the sun, and berating the moon…so go on your merry way.

Feelin’ mean, so stay out of my Goddamn way…
if I’m gonna fall, it will be in my own way.
I’ll choose the time, and I’ll choose the place,
so just for now, folks, - stay out of my friggin’ face!

For now I think I keep on feelin’ mean,
looking for trouble, and a means to an inevitable end.
If the Devil has an advocate in mind for me,
he’d best be the hottest, the meanest soul in Hades…
an interminable Hellish friend.

Stay clear, folks, and keep your distance from me, you hear?
I was living and breathing at this time last year;
This year, with a finger on the trigger, and fire in my soul,
I’ll greet my next trail with a bullet, a whiskey, and a beer.

So, just for today…stay out of my ever-lovin’ way!!


Truth be told, I’ve been looking for something, and somewhere,
some quiet space to re-think my thoughts,
and some pillow to rest my weary head.
Restless, as always, I’m not sure where I am,
and I’m not sure where my life is heading,
or whether I’m alive, or dead.

Looking for something…and not sure what it may be…
but I will keep on searching, until I become grey, and old;
To Hell with the consequences,
I’ll go from young, and timid, to aged, grey, and ultimately old.

Old age is a bitch, very much like every woman you will meet;
Not much above their shoulders,
and not much interest above their hairy feet.

Searchin’ for a woman, the kind who won’t lie and steal;
Though, I somehow doubt I’ll meet an honest lady,
because most losers deceive;
People cheat, lie, and double-talk, and ultimately, damnation, will ultimately achieve.

The rest of us are left to pick up the pieces;
the shards of a shattered life…

Picking up the last tattered remnants of a life torn to shreds…

Bring on the bullet, and put me to the ultimate test,
I will outlast you all;
then I’ll prove my case - to myself, at least - and then
rest with all the best,
and have myself a ball.

There were too many judges to recount them all,
most of 'em telling me to hang, hang, hang;
“Fuck 'em”, in the words of Tarantino… I didn’t give a dang.

Everyone is a bloody bastard, it once seemed to me,
when the world that I had made, simply consisted of me.

This is difficult to say, when something resembling me,
thought that human life was something to buy, and be bought…

Life is not so bad, and is certainly worth preserving, if only for the undeserving.

And if your good nature gives a tad,
and if the soul you believed in strays a way…
then - in the words of Tarantino -
“Blow the mother f… away!”

Sometimes… when you are standing alone in the street,
you pull up the drawbridge, and meet, other folks on the same trail.

It is never easy to face a foe that keeps you fixed to the ground,
either because of past memories, or the new joy you have found.

There is no right and wrong, when trying to get along…

It isn’t easy, but we all occasionally delve deep…thinking about how to advance forward,
instead of lying awake with thoughtless thoughts, and counting sheep.

If in doubt, about my wisdom…

The words regarding injustice, betrayal, deceipt, and abandonment, come easier to me now, than they did, a few years ago…
When I wrote the ‘Jeremy’ fables, I was at the lowest that life can throw at you.

Hopefully, now, with all that behind me, I can continue to contribute to ‘Jeremy, and other Fables’.

Life is not all that it was cracked up to be, but - with friends - anything is possible…
With all the ‘amigos’ that I have found on ‘SWDB’, I am proud to say that the SWDB is a lifeline, and one that I am proud to be associated with.

“Let’s go…”


We can’t always run away from the reality,
even when mother truth is biting us by the ass.
Not sure where my reality starts or ends,
or where Heaven, or Hell begins.

If you want me, you can have me,
because my shooting days are over,
With vulture eyes upon me.
staring me in the face, as I look down in disgrace.

Gaze well, parasites, for my flesh is not for you.
My bones are for the Lord above,
Only God knows what he will do.

I’m hopin’ He’ll take pity,
and see the sad soul within.