There’s a new grace up on Boot Hill, where we’ve planted Rowdy Pete;
He died one evenin’, sudden, with his leather on his feet;
He was Cactus Center’s terror with that work of art, the Colt,
But, somehow, without warnin’, he up and missed his holt.
His fav’rite trick in shootin’ was to grab his victim’s right,
Then draw his own revolver — and the rest was jest 'Good-night';
He worked it in succession on nine stout and well-armed men,
But a sickly-lookin’ stranger made Pete’s feet slip up at ten.
Pete had follered out his programme and had passed the fightin’ word;