Have ya' heard of Malachi Allen?
He was just another foolish felon
who thought pure cussedness would serve him well.
He swore his life was goin' ta' Hades,
as a gunman in the eighteen-eighties,
but if it was... his choices paid the bill.
He quarreled with Cy an' Shadrach
over a saddle an' tack,
an' shot them both dead in the Chickasaw Nation.
It was the fifteenth of July
when he done in Shadrach an' Cy,
proven he cared not a wit fer' human relations.
A posse was assembled,
of his peers it did resemble,
an' Deputy Marshall McAlester led the way.
They cornered the desperado,
but peacefully he would not go,
so they fought a vicious gun battle that day.
Malachi came ta' harm
with a bullet in his arm,
he tried ta' fight but could not pull the trigger.
So he was apprehended,
his futile flight up-ended,
the posse saw the irony an' snickered.
To Fort Smith they all came,
where Isaac Parker gained fame,
as the judge who loved ta' hang 'um high.
Malachi's arm they did amputate,
another casualty of his hate,
but it did not stop his appointed day ta' die.
On the gallows he heard townfolk jest,
as they watched in their Sunday best,
cuz' a hangin' party was a big event.
Now too late ta' be undone,
the cruel acts he did fer' fun,
one final drop an' he would be Hell bent.