Gunfighter Jim Riley was slow to gall.
But don't be fooled, he was quick on the draw.
There ain't much about him in western folklore,
Except one event with blood, guts, and gore.
Minding his business, just sipping his brand,
When in walk three 'pokes with pistols in hand.
The one in the lead stomps up to his friend,
And barks aloud like a stinkin' gut wind.
All hell broke loose when triggers were pulled,
And Riley's blood boiled as if it were brewed.
The first thing he did was lock the front door
Before he began to settle the score.
First, another friend gave it a go.
Got gut-shot instead, a death painful and slow.
When Riley took aim and let bullets fly,
Most hit their mark, and more men did die.
Two to the legs and the instigator fell.
Riley's first regret: not sending him to hell.
But the other two had no such luck,
They took lead in the chest: forgot to duck.
Blood was still pumping, Riley was hyped.
Confusion took over, common sense wiped.
Riley turned and saw a man by the door,
Raised his six-shooter and fired once more.
The man was unarmed, just trying to vacate.
He should've stayed low, and not tempted fate.
Some say he was lucky not to have died,
But the rest of his life he wanted to hide.
The bullet tore off the tip of his nose.
The poor guy had nothing to hold when he blows.
Riley regretted mistake number two;
Leavin' him noseless, he felt like a fool.
Now the Newton General Massacre's known far and wide;
Second only to Tombstone, where bodies abide.
But Riley would fade from gun play and history,
Adding to the truth -- an air of mystery.