Jack The Drifter Poem by Randy McClave

Jack was just a drifter
Though many called him a grifter,
As he rode from town to town
Seeing what was lost, that could be found.

Jack was always a boaster
With his gun already in his holster,
No one was ever faster
He always replied with laughter.
As he roamed the lonely Wild West
On his own spiritual journey and quest,
Always looking for an adventure and a fight
Because, he knew that he was always right.
He was the fastest with his 45
None of his opposition is still alive,
And whenever he put up fists to brawl
He would fight and beat them one and all.

Jack was just a drifter
Everyone called him either sir or mister,
With a cockiness he always did strut
He was killed with a pitchfork to his gut.

Randy L. McClave