The Outlaw

By Peter J Marcroft
I have no friends, I don't need them,
I place my trust, in the hand of doom,
My hand, a destructive bedlam,
And my enemies are cast in a stone tomb

A stranger, they never look to my eyes,
They never know what they may hide,
Viscous rumours, all of them lies,
Crush my reputation, like an angry tide

Always on the move, I remain in no place,
An unwanted entity, the lonely rover,
Danger is all I get, it is what I must face,
As I walk these dusty plains, over and over

I look to the only friend I have,
Cold as ice and stronger than steel,
Hostility, my companion, for this path,
They do not care the pain I feel

It is hard to be an outlaw, cast out,
How would you feel if you were hated?
The sins of the past, possess great clout,
They scare enemies, and on me they have grated

Yet my eyes are despair to those who oppose me,
When the high sun rises and the weed rolls,
An exchange of gunfire, another soul flees,
While in the distance a great bell tolls

This is life for me, empty and blooded,
No sons do I sire, nor wife do I take,
Rage bottled up, like a dammed river flooded,
And the hearts of men, my bullets stake

Always hated, yet so desired,
They do not care how my life will end,
For every shot that I have fired,
I will carve a dark legend

A thing told for many years,
The slayer in the dust,
Always fuelling latent fears,
Of another coming bloodlust

Guns remain loaded, blood again falls,
Something about these barrels, makes men strong,
Hold one and suddenly, rage loudly calls,
And for death, these young men long

This is what life here is for,
Where law of the gun, is put to the test,
The best of them they call the outlaw,
Out here, in the dusty, wild west...