Are they really about the Old West “hang ’em high”?
Open range neighborhoods, loud banging pipes.
Cutthroats living like as seen on TV, seeing but can’t see posing for selfies.
All cities got them, weekend warriors getting into problems.
Modern day Doc Holidays but the weapons changed.
Six shooters turned Desert Eagles, lethal weapons one clip no sequels.
Out getting rings like the Spurs, dipped in camouflage but only move with the herd.
Plagued with a short fuse losing it first, the turn over rate is intentionally blurred.
It’s gone from high noon to go out and find doom.
Seems like the harder you are gives you the right to,
Man handle issues demanding fist fulls, grandstanding both hands fanning pistols.
Crime wave hang ten war on pavement, clutter up the block with stains and facelifts.
Lost desperados looking for love back, click-clack crimes define the times reminiscent of,
Dirt roads tie up my horse and saloon life. Bunny ranch eyes and vice grip thighs.
Hush the crowd in creeps a so-called, “Patriot” with a chip on his shoulder nicknamed, “I told ya’ll”.
Grim faced ready for action, the innocent hit the deck when panic attacks them.
Forget a ten pace, all hell blazed led smacking ricochet. What a shame.
Because the Monument still standing, the democracy and the people will do the same.
Never lost in narrative fog.
Cos-play commandos are the imperative flaw.
Poets Bridge 