The Legend of Wild Bill

The Legend Of Wild Bill


Born a wisp of a lad no bigger’n a pest
on a wagon train that was headed out West;
then orphaned by some renegade braves,
when the diggin’ was done, Bill wept at the graves.
Wild Bill . . .

A fella come along and he took Bill in
taught him everything he knew 'bout ‘playing to win’.
Between hay and grass, he grew solid as stone,
stood six-foot-six in a hat all his own
Wild Bill . . .

But trouble always seemed to follow Bill aroun',
and it kept ‘im moving from town to town.
It was hot as a whorehouse on nickel night
when Bill kil’t his first man in a bar room fight.
Wild Bill . . .

It was a game of chance with a known ‘hard case’,
Bill called ‘im a four-flusher right to his face.
The card cheat sneered, “Boy, you better hobble your lip,
pull in yer horns, or reach fer yer hip.”
Wild Bill . . .

Bill slapped leather and his .45 spoke
and the chisler went down in a puff of smoke.
The bar keep yelled, “Go’n fetch the law!”
for he had never seen such a lightning draw.
Wild Bill . . .

The sheriff walked in and faced Bill down;
he was on the shoot and wasn’t messin’ ‘roun'.
“Ya better drop yer gun, son, ‘fore I clean yer plow,
cos yer a'comin’ with me to the ol’ hoosegow.”
Wild Bill . . .

“Now listen here Sheriff, it was self-defense.
He was a'cheatin’ at cards and it made no sense
to be down on yer luck and full as a tick,
palming cards like he didn't give a lick.
Wild Bill . . .

“Then pony up boy, and get outta town
cos that dead ol’ fool’s got friends aroun'.
They’ll even the score and that’s a fack,
so keep yer eyes open and watch yer back.”
Wild Bill . . .

Bill rode out of town in a cloud of dust,
there was no man alive that he could trust.
And just two days out he spotted sign
of three riders approaching from far behin'.
Wild Bill . . .

He set a cold camp and finally bed down;
slept with one eye open just lookin’ ‘roun'.
Long 'bout morning he was ready to ride,
he loosened his rifle and the Colt at his side.
Wild Bill . . .

From out of nowhere a shot rang out,
and Bill’s horse went down as he swung about.
He kicked out of the saddle shootin’ hot lead
hit one in the gut while the other fell dead.
Wild Bill . . .

Then a rifle sang from a cluster of trees
and Bill cried out as he fell to his knees.
A burnin’ pain left a searin’ track,
as Bill went down with a bullet in his back.
Wild Bill . . .

He laid there quiet with his face in the dirt,
never blinking an eye or showing his hurt.
The dry-gulcher approached with a fatal goodbye,
but Bill shot first and put a bullet in his eye.
Wild Bill . . .

Now, some folks say Bill died that day,
while others figure that he plum got away,
but I say a sheriff from a nearby town
came and found Bill lying dead on the groun'.
Wild Bill . . .

In a cusp of trees in the middle of nowhare
you’ll find Bill’s grave in disrepair
with these few words scatched upon a tree,
“He came out west and now here he be.”
Wild Bill . . .

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