A drifter rides into the town,
Soft-spoken and quite roughly dressed;
His smile and manner win him friends,
Three others are far less impressed.
While he relaxes at the bar,
They gather, spoiling for a fight.
The plain folk start to peel away;
This is a match of wrong and right.
He swigs his drink and spins around;
He picks off one from either side.
The last man standing turns to flee,
But now there is nowhere to hide.
With one last gasp, he bites the dust;
The townspeople can live in peace.
As long as this state is maintained,
The drifter’s contract here will cease.