Ballad of a Dead Man
By John Herlihy

Old Wild Bill will live forever,
His memory no one can sever.
Born regrettably with a harelip,
Skilled in shooting from the hip.
Always said old wild Bill Hickok,
He had a reputation to maintain.
Always said old wild Bill Hickok,
Made a fine livin’ on just his name.

Didn’t that slick old sharpshooter
Build a fine life out of his fame?
Didn’t that dandified old charmer
Have one true purpose to sustain?
Four outlaws were now in position,
Two on the roof, two the ground.
The air was plumb full of decision,
All eyes on him, an enemy found.

“You askin’ to be dead,” one said.
“We’ll see who’s fixin’ on being dead.”
The voice was clear, just like the air,
Crisp as a cracker with crumbs to spare.
Shots rang out, one, two three, four,
One by one, they landed on the floor.
Deflated and dead, like laundry instead,
Layin’ there on the ground, blood bled.

I stood there quietly by his side,
Thankful to be safe in my own hide.
“Make no truck of what happened,”
He said that night, eyes blackened.
“In killin’ someone’s buddy or brother,
They come searching me like no other.
They end up only making a faint plea,”
The two on the roof were killed by me.

“I‘ll never forget this,” he said with flair;
“No need to mention it,” I said with care.
All four dead men just lay there dead,
As if looking into the future with dread.
No one in Deadwood fools on old Hick;
In the street dust, he looked like a stick.
The bodies dropped down a mineshaft,
Stuck in a varmint hole in the aftermath.

He always did have a reputation to meet,
And I always did have a promise to keep.
All this happened many years in the past,
His reputation did follow to him outlast.
“I thank ye,” he said like cutting with a knife,
“Your support has ended up saving my life.”
I ended up getting lost working in a circus,
Still keeping my promise even if no purpose.

Then one fine day soon arrived like any other,
Bill entered the saloon, a long lost brother.
Everyone deferred to his commanding gaze,
Whispers echoed thru the smoke and haze.
Dressed in leather frills, his spurs did utter,
With Wild Bill close nearby, folks did stutter.
He sat to play cards with his back to the door,
Another refused his seat his eyes to the floor.

The sharpshooter glanced down at his hand,
With an air even the cards could not withstand.
Two pairs came up, black aces and black eights,
A dead man’s hand became dead man’s weights.
Shot in the head from behind by a drunken coward,
Unrecorded in history was a middle name Howard.
Bill played his final hand without his back to the door,
Died quick as his shootin’, a bloody head on the floor.