Old Danny Devil, drinking his sorrows to sleep.
He didn't do much, but he earned his keep.
The saloon doors swung open,
A stranger walked, wearing a deep blue suit.
There were scars on his face, and dust on his boot.
He sat down beside Danny Devil,
And as they drunk, their tempers did flare
Soon each man drew his revolver, as gunshots filled the air.

Both men drew their own, and they drew mighty fast
And the saloon was filled with a defining blast.
Two cold irons flew, but only one hit its mark
The man in blue made some ironic remark,
before turning to embark.

Old Danny Devil, lay dead on the saloon floor.
We shall hear his laugh no more
He died in a shootout, his hand on the gun.
He had six bullets but was ended by just one.
As the last of the blood left his mortal remains,
his killer had already fled for the plains.

Old Danny Devil, the town did not call for justice, and none was found.
Instead, they took his body and threw it in the ground.
Wrapped in a black sheet, he was forgotten by all.
The unlikely looser, of a drunken brawl.
They gave him no statue, but forevermore, there will be an empty spot in the drinking hall.

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