Scribbles on a coaster

When Dalton looked like Dooley
it was
Tom and his brother trying to fool me
I am easily taken in,

they blamed ya
for letting the pin drop
on a chamber
it was Wesson’s fault.

Innocent until we swing
and then watch
the canaries sing

we’ll end up sewing mailbags
or stitching names onto
calico toe-tags,

the bars are never open here
no chance of beer
not much chance of anything.

© 2020, John Smallshaw.