The Mild West

It was a hot afternoon in Old Ned’s Saloon
where gunmen played poker and cussed,
when in walked a fella whose boots were bright yella
and his monocle covered in dust.

The piano stopped playin’; there was silence, conveyin’
how suspicious some gunslingers are.
All eyes were just starin’ at the stranger’s odd bearing
as he shyly walked up to the bar.

The bartender was squintin’, his false eye was a-glintin’ –
with spit he was sleekin’ his hair.
At last he enquired what the stranger required
with a voice like the grunt of a bear.

The stranger just smiled; he seemed friendly and mild,
so of course they all wanted him dead.
He cleared his throat with a delicate note
and in upper-class English he said:

“Forty-one teas – all round, if you please.”
There followed a deafening roar.
The laughed till they cried, till all of them died –
their sides split all over the floor.

Yeah, that’s what he did, the ‘Cup of Tea Kid’,
he was wanted in states far and wide.
In any saloon on a hot afternoon,
If he bought you a ‘cuppa’ – you died.


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