One summer of innocence a long time ago,

Me and my friends rode the west.

There was Billy the Kid and Jesse and Frank,

Having shoot-outs to see who was best.

I played the Lone Ranger protecting the good,

Looking out for an Indian attack.

I wore leather gloves and a silvery gun,

And Joe was the bad guy in black.

We each took our turn in falling down dead,

But we'd quickly be up and about.

But sometimes an outlaw refused to get shot,

And then we'd begin to fall out.

"I shot you. You're dead!", came the mad outlaw's cry.

"You didn't, I managed to run!".

"Well if you won't get killed then I'm not going to play",

Said Harry and left with his gun.

Since Harry owned 50 per cent of our arms,

It was hard to continue the game.

So Frank got the bullet removed from his chest,

And trusty old Silver went lame.

We watched Billy and Harry skip rope in the yard,

And Jesse and Joe kicked a ball.

"I'm not going to play with them any more",

Said Frank and started to call.

Now Joe didn't like being called a girl's bra,

And stepped on Frank's leg with his heel.

And I'll never forget that look on his face,

That summer the blood became real.

There's a code of the West, by which men should abide,

And a moral I think you should know.

If you call an hombre some girl's underwear,

You'll get stepped on by someone named Joe. By Derek Rosevere

Athlone Avenue, Bolton

Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.