– Lamb Posse is what tops the bill this a.m., Sheriff,
Plus your shot of choice, plus a slice of pie, pecan or rhubarb, you pick.
– I’ll skip the pie, thank ye, and have a beer back instead o’.
– Don’t know that I can swing that, bud.
– Swing it, brother, swing, you dozy cull,
Slapping down my sidearm on the counter, loudie-like, to make a point.
A head or two beginning to turn my way
But one gander at that big silver gun barrel, swiveled right back.
There was a hunnert mile of high dry plain on every side of us out there,
Heat slithering up your back , then garrotting you about noon,
Like faux wild west Espana: rattlesnake maracas, bad teeth,
Squirrelly red-eyed night varmints, ruined old battlements
Ever so often, a day or so’s journey on horseback between,
’Stead of our own gas station/convenience store lash-ups …
Talking days of yore Espana, storybook fare, swords, infidels, history …
But we don’t do history, never have done, none to be had or made use of.
What we do got is now, right here, pucker up that brain and have a lookie-see:
Horizon to horizon, nada amigo, before or after, just the law, and the law is me.

Send Letters To:

The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN

letters@lrb.co.uk

Please include name, address, and a telephone number.

Read anywhere with the London Review of Books app, available now from the App Store for Apple devices, Google Play for Android devices and Amazon for your Kindle Fire.

Sign up to our newsletter

For highlights from the latest issue, our archive and the blog, as well as news, events and exclusive promotions.

Newsletter Preferences