Picacho Perry

Picacho Perry was his nickname,

He was a lawman and a loner;

But the best damn lawman all the same

That they ever saw in Arizona.

From Scotland or maybe it was Wales,

Somewhere ‘cross the ocean beyond;

To the desert from the heaths and dales,

He never seemed like he quite belonged.

‘Twas on the stagecoach at Tortilla Flats,

I met him for the very first time,

In a bowler and a pair of spats,

To the west he’d come to fight crime.

Now carry a gun he never would;

Imagine a lawman in the west?

But he always said and it was understood,

“Talkin’ and talkin’ more was the best.”

And the words he’d come up with – Hot Dang!

Most of them I’d hardly heard;

But with that accent he almost sang,

And well, it was hard to get in a word.

Diplomacy that’s where it’s at;

Yep, no guns for Picacho Perry,

Till one time in a saloon where he sat,

Big cowboy Jim called him a ‘fairy’.

And them insults they started to fly,

Big cowboy Jim was cussin’ and spittin’,

But Picacho Perry never batted an eye

And just talked softly from where he was sittin’.

But then cowboy Jim drew first and shot

Even though Picacho Perry wasn’t packin’;

But cowboy Jim died there on the spot

When I blasted him to hell, without cockin’.

And after I remember thinkin’ a lot,

If only Picacho Perry carried a gun,

But I knew he’d never take a shot

And for sure he’d never up and run.

And me, well, that’s why I hang around,

‘Cause in my heart I know Picacho’s right,

“Words they can’t never be downed

By them cowards who needs a gun to fight.”