Classic Poem

He'd take a human life as soon as he would take a drink,
His action with the ready gun was quicker than a wink,

He boasted of the many graves his vengeful hand had filled,
And of the bucketsful of blood he's humorously spilled.
Refuse to take a drink with him, and out would go your light,
Refrain from laughing at his jokes, and you would find a fight;
He was the vulture of the plains with whiskers on his beak,
This genuine, original tough cuss from Bitter Creek.

To Colorado state he drifted once upon a time
And struck a wondrous paying lead when Creede was in its prime,
And as the cash rolled in on him his toughness rolled away,
His tongue shed less profanity than in the early day.
He broke himself of killing men when hankering for fun,
A check-book filled the pocket which erstwhile concealed a gun,
And softness seemed to creep into the once case-hardened cheek
Worn by the original tough cuss from Bitter Creek.

Prompted by curiosity last Sabbath day I strolled
Into a leading Denver church, and there among the fold,
Dressed in a tony suit of black, up in the “Amen” row,
There sat a man I thought I'd seen back in the long ago.
His features wore a pious, calm, and sweet religious look,
His soft-toned eyes were glued upon an open prayer book,
And for a time I scarcely could believe that saint so meek
Was once the old original tough cuss from Bitter Creek.