Tall in the Saddle
By: Wayne Brown
He was a big, strong man, one could see that from afar
Ridin’ that big bay horse, wearing a marshal’s star
His work was the law, not horses, sheep or cattle
He wore a face of confidence and sat tall in the saddle
A man who was mostly quiet but fiercely determined
To rid the west of outlaws and all of their vermin
He was good with a gun and had yet to lose a battle
He wore a face of friendship and sat tall in the saddle
Outlaws and robbers feared the sound of his very name
They ran for their hidey holes and hid their face in shame
But their hiding did not deter him, his sense they couldn’t addle
He wore a face of commitment sitting tall in the saddle
His gun-hand was steady and quick; his aim was deadly true
But he was not prone to shoot a man if other ways would do
Always alert like a rattlesnake just starting its rattle
He wore the face of truth; he sat tall in the saddle
Lawmen come and go; some remembered, some forgotten
Of this man they told tales of his dispersing of the rotten
Of how he protected the innocent, their lives, and their chattel
He wore the face of courage, and he was tall in the saddle
Like all mortal men, death will eventually find his door
But not before his work becomes the tales of lore
His headstone will say it all, no hogwash or prattle
It’ll say he was a lawman and rode tall in the saddle
© Copyright WBrown2011. All Rights Reserved.
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