Aging, splintered paddles
    grace this monument of wood.
It would spin a thousand tales
    if only it could.
Of cowpokes and their weary ponies
    gathered 'neath her shade
Tellin' tales of wild stampedes
    and bloody Indian raids.
It would tell of lonely coyote howl
    and a bobcats' eery chill,
Of gophers bounding hole to hole
    and windy echos from the hill.
It served its purpose sure and proud
    as it pumped on through the night,
A tank of clear, cool water
    was filled by morning light.
To offer thirsty herds nearby
    refreshing liquid from below,
For soon the heat of prairie sun
    would send its firey glow.

THE GUNFIGHTER

Every town lived in fear of those
    whose pictures graced the jailhouse wall.
They were known by the name gunfighter
    and some were short and some were tall.

No matter what the stature of these men
    they mostly all dressed the same.
By the number of notches on their pistol grip
    it was easy to judge their fame.

Unlike their bank robber counterpart
    who really had no pride,
Who'd plunder into town in gangs
    rob a bank, mount up and ride.

These men had some unseen dignity,
    dressed in black from head to toe.
A silver saddle on a fancy horse
    and a well balanced pistol that didn't show.

He wore it 'neath his long tail coat
    that hung down past his waist.
He'd drape that coat behind the grips
    so he could draw in haste.

If someone dare draw down on him
    the newspaper story was always the same.
"A well known gunfighter rode into town,
    shot another and increased his fame."

Oh, there's always that small town punk
    who thought he's better than the best.
Now he lays in a place called Boot Hill
    where the gunfighters victims find their rest.

IS THERE A BLACKSMITH AROUND HERE?

You've read about the village blacksmith
    with hands so large and tough.
There was a blacksmith in those western towns
    an he sure had work enough.

He sometimes ran the livery stable
    there were horses and wagons to rent.
But around the forge and anvil
    is where most of his time was spent.

The forge would spew out smoke and fire
    as he pulled the bellows down.
And the smell of smoke and molten metal
    would permeate that little town.

He made wheel rims and iron fences
    and fixed old barrel bands.
He beat the metal with an anvil hammer,
    tightly held the forge tong in the other hand.

He'd hit that red hot metal
    and make his anvil sing.
Then he'd bounce his hammer several times,
    I suppose just to hear it ring.

Them some stranger'd come into town
    his horse had thrown its shoes.
He told the smith to hurry up,
    he had no time to lose.

His shop was on the main street,
    a sign with letters big and clear,
To save the folks from askin',
    "Is there a blacksmith around here?".

THE OLD WEST

It wasn't easy 'way out there
    to earn a buck or two.
Hard work from dawn 'til dusk
    there's always lots to do.
Horses needed to be broke
    miles of posts and fence to mend.
Once a month the mail would come
    that someone afar would send.
Days were hot and nights were cool
    you'd sweat from head to toe.
Then winter time would come
    and cold and chilling winds would blow.
Stock would freeze from lack of food
    the pond was covered with a crust.
All that remains when spring arrives
    are bones enshrined in dust.
Guess no one will understand
    what happened way out there
While dreaming in the living room
    upon an easy chair.