Stroke of midnight and from out of Hades
Cowgoth rides into a misty ghost town
Kickin’ up cobwebbed tumbleweeds
Just another blood-sucking rustler
Lamenting another lost show down
He dismounts his mythic steed
Pretending it’s a dragon, even a griffin
Instead of a broken mule half-breed.
His Bela Lagosi cape drags in the dirt,
But he refuses to admit, it looks like a skirt
Pentagram spurs jingle as he struts into the street
Black fingernails slide along his six shooter
And his pensive brow furrows; eyes grow mean
Shadowed by his hood, glaring into the distance,
Alone in the road, he brushes dust off his feet
His crow-head boots are worn
And his face rough and stubbly
His teeth are rotten
And his mouth blackened by chew
His jaw juts forth and he reeks of cow spew
But undaunted, determined he stands
To confront the truth less law of the land
But he has always been a bit confused
And his mascara runs as he bewails past abuse
“Woe is me, a lonely cowgoth,” he cries,
“Why must I endure?!” He pleads with the sky:
“Oh please send me another cowgoth
with leather and spikes…
a female cowgoth to set things a right!”
But, alas, his sorrow overcame him
His hardened jaw grew slack
He tried to steady his hands
As his depression came back
No cattle to save him
No hay to bale
No woman to betray him
No whiskey or ale
Nothing left for poor cowgoth
He sunk down, and he wailed
And when his final lamenting sobs
Faded in the darkening night
The last cowgoth pulled his pistol
And lost his last gun fight:
He placed his barrel against his head
And shattered his skull with a round of lead
A melancholic, melodramatic end
To the last cowgoth across the land
A legend in his own mind
He wore the blackest black
A cowgoth could hope to find.
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