HOUR 11 Travelin’


With pencil and paper in hand

I jot down the name,

I jot down the brand.


For other folks

the brand don’t matter

but I write it down

it saves on the chatter.


I travel from town to town

aching with pain,

but I like what I do.


Of course I’d prefer

for a doc to see

I let my wounds to heal

no docs are  around


I don’t trust em barbers

and I never will

I’ve seen what they’ve done

to a cadaver or two.


I’m feared by particular men, you see.

Dirty stink’n rotten men, the kind you want to bury.

The kind that steal your horses and cattle

and know, if caught, they’ll be heightened for death.


Perhaps it’s the platform,

they desire to speak

most hold their tongue

many of ’em freak..


They whine and squeal just like little pigs.

Two more miles to go and I’ll be there by sun-up.

Reckon they’ll be waitin’, for this travelin’ man.


I’m the one with the rope,

I’m the one with the plan.

They stretch if I leave em

don’t want no complaints.


So they’re down in a day.

The crowd that amasses

boggles my mind

They line up a few men for the day.


For I may not return

for months on end.

I’m the hangman

I move from town to town.


My horses are tired

they have a right to complain.

I’ll set down me britches

one of these days.


For now I’ll keep movin’ and hanging away.




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