Wilson, Wickford and Dunne
Were gunslingers and lawmen
With a remarkable thing in common:
They all had half-brothers they needed to kill.
They rode the Jornada del Muerto
In New Mexico, shooting rattlers
And drinking bad coffee,
And smoking black Mexican cigars,
And looking up at the shooting stars.
Hugh Wilson found Jeb in Santa Fe,
And shot him in the back of the head.
Nick Wickford crossed paths with Samuel
At some godforsaken trading post,
And blew out his heart.
Ryan Dunne caught Slocum Bickford watering his horse,
And shot him from a distance (of sorts) .
Now the three were wanted dead or alive,
And it seemed for a time that they thrived.
But squabbles perked up their rides,
One would complain to the other,
And all three would hide.
Then in El Paso it came to a head:
In a fury of dust they shot each other dead.
In an inquiry into the gang,
A newspaper man gathered evidence
As to why the gang went on the spree.
Each, he discovered, had had his ego punctured
By their dastardly half-brothers,
For simply having the same harlot of a mother.
Stan Petrovich
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/family-feuds/
