He was the scourge of the plains,

And nary a man stood before him.

The notches of dead were on his belt,

As many a man died trying to kill him.

Though he had only a six shooter,

It was one shot that killed the brave.

Stand not or give him any lip

Or you will die and not be called brave.

O fool that I shoud be the one

To test his aim, though I were weak,

He drew and both guns were heard.

He fell and died at the hand of the weak