A bit of American mythos was at stake

A sense of the legendary one can’t fake

There’s sort of laughter that merry makes

When one pursues this to perhaps undertake

Still, there it is, I must solemnly confess

Though through all of my best efforts, it’s a mess

One solitary bullet rang out in the night

To die with my boots on only seemed right

Now my ghost haunts the local cemetery

In my morbid sense of keeping the symmetry

Boothill is perhaps the best of the American west

Where all the best gunfighters are laid to rest

From Deadwood to the streets of Tombstone

It seems that every Cowtown had it’s own…