Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Joseph Allen's Anger Done Him In

Some folks say, "don't let the Sun set on yer' anger,"
          cuz' only bad things will happen if ya' stay mad.
But there'll always be those who won't harken ta' the danger
          like a rebellious pup, or dimwit dingo,
          with a stubborn streak iron-clad.
Well, Joseph Allen was such a one, he failed ta' learn that truth,
          he took offense at A.A. Bobbitt the cattle baron,
          an' they began a feud.
Most likely began over somethin' simple, somethin' said,
          or without proof.
          But still the hate did agitate enough ta' fume an' brood.
Allen partnered in a saloon an' cattle ranch with a feller'
           named Jesse West.
          They did O.K. in terms of pay, an' shoulda' played it square,
But with beef baron Bobbitt always a bestin' their best
          they took it ta' heart, got themselves frazzled,
          an' forgot the meanin' of fair.
Took some of their money, tainted it red on account of
          a polk named Jim Miller.
          He made him a name with a gun in his hand,
          not as a ridin' cow-herder.
They say scores of names of deadmen he carries,
          cuz' he's a professional killer.
          An' the only reason ta' have him around is if ya'
           contract fer' a murder.
The beef baron's body was found in ought-nine,
          February twenty an' six.
          The corpse was ventilated with bullets a'plenty,
           records claim it was riddled.
But the feud was well-known, so Allen an' West were
          stuck in a bit of a fix.
          With them were Miller an' another feller' Berry Burrell,
           each on the proverbial griddle.
Arrested an' shackled an' placed behind bars in Ada, Oklahoma.
          So Allen opened his billfold again, an' hired the four a law talker.
Moman Pruiett, an' attorney with "rep," it equates ta' a foul aroma.
          His murder record stood at 303 set free,
          a mighty convincin' squawker.
When word of this legal ringer spread the townfolk
           didn't like the score.
          The thought of the Texas killer for hire, an' those payin'
          blood money ta' bring him
Gettin' set free on account of legalities after
          such a horrific chore
          sparked talk like "vigilante," then talk became action,
          "Let's get a rope an' string 'um."
A mob of more than forty a strode ta' the gray bar motel.
          They broke out the four accused, a worse fer' wear
          as they drug 'um ta' the stable.
Allen an' friends appealed with squeals, 'cept Miller
          who put on show'n'tell.
          He confessed ta' fifty-one killin's, but thought it
          more important ta' die with his hat on, if able.
I suppose Allen might wonder as he sweats the fires of Hell,
          how no vigilante came ta' be arrested fer' doin' him in.
"Well didn't they do what I hired ta' be done?,"
          ya' might hear him ask.--- Well, do tell.
          But perhaps he shoulda' checked his own temper,
          quit feedin' the feud an' takin' ta' whimper,
          so each of them might've jus' kept on a livin'.
So let me iterate... it just don't pay ta' hate.

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