Rootin' Tootin' Kahones In A Pant Suit Poem by Hubert Wilson

Hell bent for that there city slicker!
Inside a bar for rounds of liquor.
Lookin' every hombre in the eye.
Lightin' words began to fly!
Ain't no fancy city talk
Really gonna stop this gun tote'n lady hawk.
Yep, she sermonized about her big iron piece.

Rarin' to fire off a few rounds in a lead feast!
Orderin' up more drinks for the whole house.
Determin'd to call out that smooth talkin' louse?
How could from this lady sharpshooter he get away?
All he and his preacher man could do was pray?
Makin' nary a move to slap leather!

Could have heard the dropp of a teeny feather!
Loud was the silence in the crowd!
Instantly all wer'd cow'd!
Not one stampeded for the door!
Thumpin' heartbeats began to soar!
Openly apologizin' was the tenderfoot as he backed out!
No bitter shots were fired after the verbal and liquor rout!

No petticoat function but Charlton Heston would be proud?