Clean my stick,
load my six,
meet him in the street has the dust blows thick.
Wind to my back,
stance to the left,
empty him of breath with a slug in his chest.
Feel the chill inside,
pufffing up with pride,
mount up on my horse and way I will ride.
The gunman that I am...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I like this. Clean my stick, load my six, meet him in the street as the dust blows thick. By 'stick' I interpreted as 'rifle'. 'six', of course is his six-shooter or pistol. Of course, not every gunman can be lucky every time. Nice poem, in any case!