The Gunfight

I’m standing here in silent on the street.
Starring down a stranger i know my gun can beat.
His eyes are hungry for my bounty of gold, but it’s the craft of drawing that my hand will show.
The smoke is rising from the bullet hole.
Reminding me that body just lost it’s soul.
So why do i feel like a snake in the grass, when the man forced me to draw out my pistol and shatter his heart of trash.
The undertaker puts him in a pine box.
A horse drawn wagon carries then up seminole hill.
He digs a shallow grave to lay this dead man down.
So now i tip my hat and ride away from his burial ground.