“Columns of dead-men at False Creek,
Are come to steal our women-folk!
Everything they touch catches cold.”
Cried the Town Crier of Dust Street.
Standing in a shadowy arch,
The bishop’s daughter fainted.
She lay on the saloons’ threshold.
Her lips quivered and her fan,
Was by the boot of him who stood,
Deputy squinting down the street.
The townsfolk gathered around;
Three tended to the fallen girl.
Swift shots were fired! The men shot back!
For up Dust Street dead-men stood who’s
Silver pieces flashed in noonday.
The dead are many; living few.
And fewer still after that fight:
They took a pair of ladies each,
Over their shoulders, over hills;
But they left a lonely Ghost Town.
__________
Copyright 2022 Jeffrey Merk
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