Classic Poem

The heat acrost the desert was a-swimmin' in the sun,
When Waring of Sonora-town,
Jim Waring of Sonora-town,
From Salvador come ridin' down, a-rollin' of his gun.

He was singin' low an' easy to his pony's steady feet,
But his eye was live an' driftin'
Round the scenery an' siftin'
All the crawlin' shadows shiftin' in the tremblin' gray mesquite.

Eyes was watchin' from a hollow where a outlaw Chola lay:
Two black, snaky eyes, a-yearnin'
For Jim's hoss to make the turnin',
Then — to loose a bullet burnin' through his back — the Chola way.

Jim Waring's gaze, a-rovin' free an' easy as he rode,
Settled quick — without him seemin'
To get wise an' quit his dreamin' —
On a shiny ring a-gleamin' where no ring had ever growed.

But the lightnin' don't give warnin' — just a lick, an' she is through.
Waring set his gun to smokin',
Playful-like — like he was jokin',
An' — a Chola lay a-chokin', an' a buzzard cut the blue.