A drifter rides into the town,

Soft-spoken and quite roughly dressed;

His smile and manner win him friends,

Three others are far less impressed.

 

While he relaxes at the bar,

They gather, spoiling for a fight.

The plain folk start to peel away;

This is a match of wrong and right.

 

He swigs his drink and spins around;

He picks off one from either side.

The last man standing turns to flee,

But now there is nowhere to hide.

 

With one last gasp, he bites the dust;

The townspeople can live in peace.

As long as this state is maintained,

The drifter’s contract here will cease.