Like cowboy poetry? Want to visit a ghost town where the ghosts still linger? Here’s a lyric you won’t want to pass up.

In the Old Ghost Town at midnight,
When the blood moon drips dark skies–
They say far up on Boot Hill,
Those long-dead cowboys rise.
They float down to Lost Souls’ Saloon,
And crowd its creaking floor.
Those swinging doors ‘haint twitched an inch
As the steaming whisky pours.

In the Old Ghost Town past midnight,
The piano starts to play
Forgotten tunes ’bout Dance Hall Dolls
By Boney-Fingers Ray.
See Scarlet Charlette leaning down
From her balcony above.
A hundred pairs of ice eyes blaze
At wonders sold for love.

In the Old Ghost Town by moonlight,
You can dance among the dead.
There’s Rustler Roy with hemp noose tie,
And a strange tilt to his head.
There’s Card Sharp Kelly cheating still,
With that bullet hole third eye–
And Stick Up Sal with shot-gunned vest,
Just like the day she died.

In the Old Ghost Town at three-thirteen,
The Devil’s Stage rolls in–
Another load of spur-souled saints
Arrested in their sin.
The Parson’s chained to Missy Mae,
Regretting his sweet fling.
There’s Hanging Judge Hank Hardwood,
Who laughed to watch ‘em swing.

Then the Mission bell tolls thirteen times
Out in the aching street,
As another six-gun spector tries
To win his quick release.
He must outduel Dark Lord himself,
Cruel cannon on his hip–
That single, slender, brimstone smoke
Still dangling from his lip.

In the Ghost Town street they’re counting
Twenty paces back to back.
But Dark Lord turns and fires first,
While one step they still lack.
Another spector blown to flames
Lies smoldering in the dust–
While Sheriff Fearing walks away,
Muttering he must.

In the Old Ghost Town gray dawn draws near–
They waft back up Boot Hill
To lie among those shallow graves
The way they always will–
While Flame-Eyed Bulls with gleaming horns
Stampede through trembling street,
Their Wild Wind Riders whooping hell’s
Blue sparks beneath their feet.

By cold gleam of desert dawn,
The empty street reveals they’re gone
To toss again on barbed wire beds
And dream the wicked lives they’ve led.
A tumbleweed goes spinning by,
The gila monster rolls one eye–
While vulture retches in his nest,
Till sun sinks dying in the West.

In the Old Ghost Town at midnight,
When the blood moon drips dark skies–
They say far up on Boot Hill,
Those long-dead sinners rise.
They float down to Lost Souls’ Saloon,
And dance its creaking floor–
Till the Old Town crumbles back to dust,
Then they need dance no more.
Till the Ghost Town crumbles back to dust,
Then they need dance no more.

2
Liked it
  • David Crerand on Jul 27, 2009

    Great story telling. I could see it as a ballad, someone with a voice like Jimmy Dean of “Big John” fame

  • sandie on Jul 27, 2009

    lol, loved it.

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