I couldn't post a Matt Dillon poem (A Cut Above) without also posting a "Miss Kitty." For Amanda Blake, who left us 15 summers ago, far too young.

Out west in Dodge City, just south of Boot Hill
sits a bar called the Long Branch Saloon.
It’s downtown on Front Street, a bustling place,
be it April, December or June.
There’s whiskey and gambling, and pretty girls, too,
and a barkeep known simply as Sam.
The patrons are sodbusters, ranchers and such,
with occasional guys on the lam.

The owner, Miss Russell, is tender but tough,
known as Kitty or sometimes called “Red.”
She settled in town quite by accident,
a New Orleans miss born and bred.
From the moment she spied Marshal Dillon,
she knew she’d be sticking around.
For the guy with the badge was the best of the lot,
and no finer a man could be found.

The lawman was handsome—abundantly tall,
six-seven from boots to his brow.
And in no time their favor encompassed
nearly everything but the vow.
Kitty trusted he’d always protect her
from the outlaws and ruffians who
would hijack her stagecoach and carry her off,
provoking a daring rescue.

But this redhead was no average woman—
she was cunning and shrewd, best believe.
As she gambled the town ‘gainst the lawman’s life
with a joker or ace up her sleeve.
From her fiery red hair to the birthmark
that dotted her ivory cheek,
Miss Kitty was always a lady,
though never submissive or meek.

To Matt, Kitty Russell was faithful.
To her friends she was loyal and kind.
And her laughter, robust and contagious,
welcomed folks to relax and unwind.
So we raise up a mug and salute her—
maybe offer a suitable tune.
For whatever the spirit you’re craving
can be had at the Long Branch Saloon!