The Old Lawman

A poem by Mickey Basden (With a respectful nod to Oliver Wendell Holmes.)

Still he passes here today 

As he stumbles on his way,

Walking slow.

You can hear his slippers slide

As he whispers far and wide:

“On I go!”

He proudly says that in his youth —

And humbly swears that it’s the truth,

He was good.

Now he struggles to get by,

And you know he’d like to fly

If he could.

It’s plainly hard for him to walk,

And sometimes when he tries to talk

It’s just a moan.

He often looks around in fear,

His trusty pistol always near.

He lives alone.

Happy pictures on the wall

Bring mem’ries of his cooling fall —

And too, his lusty spring.

The summers that he early loved

Have lately been unkindly shoved

Aside for winter’s fling.

The daily papers often told

Of exploits brave, extremely bold,

Against the foe.

He led a team of stalwart men,

The like you’ll never see again —

Don’t you know.

But now his muscled arms grow thin,

The beard is white upon his chin;

He grows old.

No more the frantic clarion call

Upon his eager ears will fall.

His story’s told.

You know it surely isn’t kind —

Although I know he wouldn’t mind —

To grin and stare.

His shuffling gait, his skinny legs,

For just a little pity begs,

To show you care.

And if you ever live to be

As feeble and as old as he,

Hanging on;

May you find a kindly soul

To help you ‘til you reach your goal,

All alone.