Slow Day at Dead Dog Gulch

The tumbleweed came drifting down the old Apache trail

as Zeke and Hank stood leaning on the busted hitchin’ rail.

Heading east to Oregon they’d somehow chanced upon

this godforsaken one horse town whose horse had up and gone.

‘Yup,’ drawled Zeke reflectively, ‘that dog looks dead to me.

You wanna mosey over there and take a look and see?’

‘Well’, said Hank uncertainly, ‘now I don’t know ‘bout that.

I was just a-wondrin’ if these boots go with this hat?

They looked just fine and dandy in that Kansas city store

but out here in the midday light .. well… now I ain’t so sure.’

Zeke reflected pensively, ‘Y’know, there’s folks as says

that dogs a lazy SOB - just sits and sleeps for days.

‘I reckon that’s just crazy talk, don’t see how that could be.

That mangy hound’s just skin and bone, it sure looks dead to me.’

Hank thought a while and sucked his teeth. ‘….About my hat and boots…..

back home I got another hat but ain’t sure if it suits.

I’ll maybe go to Reno and have one specially made

- an understated buckskin in a slightly darker shade.’

‘Now what’s with all these fancy boots, them calfskin gloves and hat?

And now I come to mention it - is that a silk cravat?

We sure are different you ‘n’ me. We don’t see eye to eye.

Ya never fret about that dog, ya simply walk on by.

Ya never spit tobaccy juice at critters in the dust

and as fer Madame Fifi’s house - you said you wasn’t fussed.’

Hank began to contemplate a flower in the dirt,

recalling that old whisky bar where Zeke had lost his shirt -

some crazy cowpoke drinking game – a foolish drunken bet,

the beer splattered everywhere, his torso soaking wet.

‘Remember back in ‘Frisco you told me you were keen

to find yerself a pardner…. well I took that to mean…. ‘

‘What?’ he asked, ‘so here ya are, my buddy on the range.’

‘Nothin’ nothin’, I just thought… forget it, nothin’ strange.’