There’s a shoot-out on the bowling green

The pianola’s full of holes

The Man with No Name’s

Got a Zimmer frame 

And a tray of sausage rolls

He’s a High Plains drifter 

Not from round here

The strong and silent type

Got a dance partner, can’t lift her

They practice moves on Skype

At the monthly hoedown 

At the nursing home 

He wears a felt ten-gallon hat

It’s time for a Showdown 

He was born to roam

Mind your head, stay down, lay flat

As the shots crack out over the Bridge Club

And the Scrabble letters hit the deck

It’s time to make a swift exit

Or get a dose of lead in your neck

His spurs glint, he wears a bandana

Best call the manager - now

He’s chewing on last night’s Havana

And wiping the sweat from his brow

A fistful of Werther’s in his left hand

A Colt 45 in his right

The Outlaw makes his last stand

In a waistcoat that’s slightly too tight.

The SWAT squad arrive all guns blazing

They’re not here for shortbread and tea

That spread for Macmillan’s amazing

Was that two lumps of sugar, or three?

It’s all over in the High Chaparral Rest Home

The residents feel truly blessed

No more free prescriptions 

Just a tombstone inscription

Once upon a time in a vest