Looking in on a dusty town,
a man sits at a store.
Over his eyes his hat is down.
To him it's such a bore.

But what's this coming down the road?
A lady he does spy.
Her dress is classy, so bright red,
a patch across her eye.

He sees a holster on her hip.
A duel he does forsee.
He starts to shake, swallows his dip.
"She's comin' right fer me!"

But he stands up, confronts his foe.
They meet at center stage.
His hands are wet. His mouth is dry.
Her one eye filled with rage.

They stand apart, hands at their side,
so tense that they could shout.
She reaches first. Her hand goes down.
Her weapon she pulls out.

She's fairly quick, to his surprise.
She really wins the race.
But she falls dead, lays on the ground,
her gum stuck to her face.

The man has won, and once again,
he had the upper hand.
He's never lost, 'cause Hubba Bubba's
always been his brand.


copyright 1992 Dale Suffridge