Gunman Poem by Saint Cynosure
Gunman
Clean my stick,
load my six,
meet him in the street has the dust blows thick.
Wind to my back,
stance to the left,
empty him of breath with a slug in his chest.
Feel the chill inside,
pufffing up with pride,
mount up on my horse and way I will ride.
The gunman that I am...
Sunday, November 13, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: death
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11/3/2025 6:38:03 PM # 1.0.0
I like this. Clean my stick, load my six, meet him in the street as the dust blows thick. By 'stick' I interpreted as 'rifle'. 'six', of course is his six-shooter or pistol. Of course, not every gunman can be lucky every time. Nice poem, in any case!