Showdown at CT’s Saloon

Showdown at CT’s Saloon

A story is told of a man half old

Frequently lurked these parts.

Cloaked and hatted, artfully tatted

Known for wooing old tarts.

He broke life’s stencil, sharpened his pencil

Then quickly cut loose his anchor.

The tales he spins as he rides the winds

Life, Lived without anger

A weasel of wit, especially writ

His weapon, the fountain preferred

Words un-minced, quick in a pinch

Scribing things not yet heard

One late eve, while dropping some eaves

On a grumpy ole gruff buffoon

Who was spilling the tea, gleefully

His shadow filling the room.

The anti-dementor, knew what he’s meant for.

“I’ll shed light on that soul.

I’ll rhyme and I’ll rhythm and shine like a prism

Always, laughter the goal.”

He squared up to ‘em and said “How ya doin

Mind if I spin a tall tale?”

Of two silly fellas, who couldn’t ‘ve told yas

From hither or dither they haled.

The goon then said with a nod from his head

“Son, you’re a bit twisted.

Words like that, used like that,

Round here ain’t never existed.”

The mountaineer poet drew pen like a gun

“You just made my papers.

Funny enough, you’re just the stuff,

To fill my booklet of capers.”

The saloon baboon, stiff as a loom,

Once again lost in translation.

Folded arms as big as big cars,

Time to head to the station.

He holstered his pen, tipped hat with a grin

“Boys, I’ll be seein’ ya ‘round.”

He’d smoothed a few splinters, “What’s up with yalls winter?”

Signed, the Metaphor Minter