Gunslingers

Fresh from welding cars these old-school hipsters
Wander quietly into the bar
These characters are small-town heroes
 
Their vices are hidden, like old tattoos
Slow to anger, they seek no favours
They are virtuous desperados

They chew the air, these low-slung lone-stars
There are scars on their battered Fenders
They could kill you with one cold stare
 
They can nail a riff at a hundred yards
In any fly-blown, one-horse town
They can lift the mood of the hardest crowd

Narrow-eyed, they check out the room
Casually, for opportunities
Cool customers. Quicker men are dead
 
Those who were too keen to impress
Who did not have the economy
Of true heroes: their legendary finesse

These men have stolen many hearts
With the tunes in their fingers
With their deaths heads and silver dollars
 
They’ll ride in, clean up and ride out
Leaving, merely, the air ringing
A twist of smoke. No forwarding address