Myths and Marbles

Myths turn green settling among grasses.
My one steel shooter never gets dirty.
It hypes right along. I scuff my knees
For the little coward who shot Mister Howard and caused
Poor Jesse to be laid in his grave
Under a grove of trees the song's monument
Christens with visitors who love ballads
About outlaws who do good things for people
Who are down and out: Jesse James was one of those;
Dale and Roy, so many more, exceeding art
Rising out of lined paper to record the news,
How one robs trains to give money to the poor.
What happened to the Robert Ford,
That "dirty little coward who shot Mister Howard?"
Marvels promote promises, I think:
Join the circus, drink booze, get on your knees and hold
Garlands over the heads of shooters and freaks
In P. T. Barnum's circuses the world
Over: entreat mibsters knuckled down with taws their visions.
Let Jesse James be Robin Hood or Mister Howard.
They never robbed a mother or child in that song by Billy Gashade.

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