"J.W. Wilson," the alias of Marvin Kuhms
Was most likely born under a whiskey moon.
Bank robber and thief,
Ten years spreading grief,
With the big bully style of a modern-day goon.
Instead of caressing curvaceous buns,
Kuhms was known to sleep with two guns.
So the posse he'd meet
Came in with stocking feet
And surprised him like a bad case of the runs.
Marshall Laird told him not to draw,
And waved his six-shooter close to Kuhms jaw.
But the ornery cuss
Did what he must,
Only to be shot in the head by the law.
Somehow Kuhms survived his foolish attempt,
And was sent to the pen with indignant contempt.
So when Kuhms made parole
He again chose to go
And steal for himself the life that he dreamt.
He figured he'd have to put in some hustle
To make up lost time, so he started to rustle.
But another brain fart
Doomed his plan from the start:
A farmer shot him dead when fearing a tussle.