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Composed while driving through Fartown on the A641 (Brighouse to Huddersfield).

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I reach the summit, crest the rise,

Raise my hand to my brow and shield my eyes

From the glare and the heat of the burning noon day sun.

I look down the valley, at the land below,

To what bakes beneath that ol’ fire ball’s glow,

As the sun beats fierce from the bluest of blue skies.

Through the sheen of the blacktop’s dusty lid a figure rides out,

He’s the Fartown Kid.

That killer of killers and roper of the badest men.

Closer now, I can see he’s aged, stooped and bent,

His skin dry like a sun burnt page.

I no longer want him dead just to quench my fire.

The Kid pulls to a stop, tips his hat.

Say’s “Howdy, son, ” and just like that,

The heat inside grows strong and flames my hate.

I reach for my gun, the Kid does too.

I’m pretty fast, but there are few

Quicker than that ol’ lawman.

That killer of men.

Two shots ring out.

Beaten to the drawer, I drop from my horse

And fall to the floor.

Where my blood blooms dark, pooling in the dirt.

He smiles and turns, rides his mount away,

Into the shimmer and the sheen of the burning day.

And the bluest blue sky swallows up the Fartown Kid.

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