I left you folks, with this tale of doom,
The hero and foe,
were standing in a saloon.
The sixguns were drawn, the thunder blasting.
One was going to Hell,
A place everlasting.
Now here’s the end, to this fateful tale.
Who will be standing?
Who’s going to Hell?
After years of being a plumber,
Hamp’s arthritis showed through,
Len was faster on the draw,
His deadly lead flew.
But his painter instincts, could only make him cry.
He couldn’t get it right,
But at least he tried.
Lead killed the door, slugs flew through the bar.
But men both had missed,
At least so far.
Hamp dived for protection, behind a nearby bench.
To addle his opponent,
He went and chunked a wrench.
The jaws latched on, twisted Len’s arm,
But it’s handle hit a can of paint,
Keeping him from harm.
The pain from the wrench, caused him to cry.
Said, “Damn you marshal,
Damn your onry hide!
Red’s waiting for me, to get this o’er.
With fresh cooked pork chops,
Just outside the door!
With the grease she made some gravy,
With “catheads” on the side.
She’s through with you marshal,
I tell you no lie.”
Len returned fire, using masking tape,
He knew the gluey side,
Was something Hamp would hate.
A “plumber’s helper” sailed through the air.
It’s suction power?,
Stuck to Len’s hair.
Not to be outdone, Len grabbed the four inch brush,
He threw it with all his might,
The room fell to a hush.
It caught the marshal center, The handle drove home.
Hamp had to do something,
He didn’t have long.
With a saw made for keyholes, he hewed the handle off,
Stopped the flow of blood,
Before everything was lost.
Their deadly colts forgotten, they used the tools of their trade.
They both knew that soon,
One would be in their grave.
Copper tubing cutters, hit the outlaw with a thud.
He produced a putty knife,
That’s point, craved for blood.
The blade brandishing forward, he rushed the bench.
The sound of metal falling,
As he freed the wrench.
The two met in the middle, with the plunger in Len’s hair,
Hamp fended the knife,
Using a twelve inch square.
Two mighty opponents, A painter and plumbing man.
Knowing when they parted,
Only one would be able to stand.
Hamp stabbed at the other, trying to send him to God.
But the string tripped his feet on the floor,
And pulled on the deadly plumb-bob.
The putty knife flashed, bringing back red.
The marshal’s eyebrows frowned,
As his life filled with dread.
His arthritis forgotten, an uppercut to jaw,
Left the imprint, of a 24” wrench,
Len had messed with the law.
He stumbled free of the fight, the outcome clear.
The outlaw was finished,
Or at least mighty near.
The saloon doors swung open, “Red” stepped inside.
Said, “I had to see the finish,
I just couldn’t hide.
Len, your life is over, and bravely you have fought.
But I guess it was for the marshal,
That I cooked these pork chops.”
Now this tale is over, it’s sad but it’s true.
Hamp got the pork chops,
And gnawed the bones, free of meat,
Before he was through!!!!
Another savage tale, that sprung from the western lands.
One of a plumbing marshal and pork chop bones,
“Red”, and a dead painter man.