BEASTLY TALES

THE SHERIFF

The Sheriff’s name was Virgil Bigbutt,
And he was a rather nasty nut,
He loved to strut the sidewalk decking,
Designed to keep street mud from wrecking,
Cowboys boots and fine ladies’ shoes,
Which would lose their lustre if mud did ooze,
Into their footwear making it brown,
Of course, there weren’t too many ladies in town,
More like floozies who were exceedingly cute,
Working in houses of ill repute.
So Virgil now did strut his stuff,
And on a cheroot he did puff,
His two six guns tethered by his side,
His eyes wide open for those who might hide,
To take a very sneaky shot,
At Virgil, who wasn’t liked a lot.

The funeral parlour was at the end of town,
Where those needing rest were roughly laid down,
Always busy with cadavers with holes,
From shoot outs, using their bodies as goals.
The saloon, of course, was right in the centre.
Swing doors flapped in the place to enter.
Periodically they were roughly flung asunder.
As a cowboy, having committed a blunder,
Was ejected at very great speed
Having decided that saloon rules were not to heed.

There was undoubtedly a produce store,
With grain and hay all over the floor.
A hardware and a grocers too,
Selling paraphernalia old and new.
Being a wild west town there were houses of ill repute,
To cater for those not giving a hoot,
For standards of moral rectitude now,
But they might, if someone would show them how.

Now Virgil had heard that Dangerous Dan McPike,
Was riding into town on his horse Spike,
To rob the Wells Fargo bank,
And, to be more than just frank,
He had never tried such an action before,
So, more than likely, he’d be shown the door.
He checked his guns, and took up his swag bag,
And casually smoking a rather foul fag,
Went into the bank to demand money,
But then discovered his nose was quite runny.
So he stood aside, and sneezed, “Kerchoo!”
And decided to abort the mission. Wouldn’t you?
He was being considerate, if you please,
Not wanting to spread a contagable disease.

So now you have an understanding as to the town.
It stood solitary, on prairies dry and brown.
Nothing to recommend it, not one thing,
Except Virgil Bigbutt, his praises to sing.
For Virgil, apart from being a bit of a clown,
Was undoubtedly the fastest gun in town.
He’d drilled holes in cowpokes, up to thirty four.
They’d all been highly obnoxious, right to the core.
Now he was facing number thirty five,
Would he conquer, would he survive?
Virgil drew his gun and did rapidly fire,
Before his opponent could decently enquire,
As to procedures for the matter in hand.
Before he knew it, he was bleeding on sand.

Doc. Sawbones was quickly on the scene,
“Nice Virgil, nice, yes nice and clean”.
Said the Doc. as he applied tourniquet.
“This one is lucky, he can fight another day”.
So Virgil carved another notch on the butt of his gun.
He had so many, barely room for a new one.
The undertaker was highly vexed.
He’d lost business, who would be next?
To fatally succumb to Virgil’s gun,
So he could have some funeral fun.
“It should be clearly understood”,
“That burying cowpokes is my livelihood”,
“And so I tell you, it’s not very good”,
“That you didn’t kill him when you could”.
So said the undertaker badly affronted,
Not getting the business that he wanted.