He stood in the road outside of town
With a broken clockwork toy in his hand.
A graveyard for childish dreams in his palm
A broken lifeline.
The mechanical amusement sputtered to life in his fist.
As he clenched, it whirred and died again.
It was a cowboy who drew his gun,
but the pistol was welded to the holster
by age and careless children,
So it struggled and strained
and it unwound its own spring.
He didn't need tattoos to show...
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