That Toddlin' Town

Desert silv'ry blue beneath the pale moonlight,
Coyotes yippin' lazy on the hill.
Sleepy winks of light along the far skyline,
Time for millin' cattle to be still...

Well, a bunch of the boys from the WR Bar outfit was settin' around the old virtual campfire the other night after a long day chasin' the boss's cows, and in amongst the usual pissin' and moanin' about saddle sores and tight boots the talk got around to firearms.

Everbody started to draggin' out his favorite shootin' irons, and I swan it weren't long before they was just a goin' on to where you'da thought somebody was gonna git up and start spoutin' Shakespeare about his pet hogleg. I just sorta lurked around at the edge of the firelight and laid low, on accounta I ain't armed. I been hangin' my sombrero in a bunkhouse where there's just ever kind of rule against keepin' Evil Machines in your footlocker, and if I was to keep my old 1911 around here I'd be breakin' all kinds of local ordinances. And I'd never do that, acourse.

That Toddlin' Town