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Silver sheets pour from the gutter, Changing all to brown and blue. Yet one person sits alone, unmoving, Stringy grey hair obscuring her view. Rain in rivulets runs off her face,
The grit of sand slides rough across the ground beneath his boots. He is a real talk stand tall sturdy built man and he's got nothing left to lose.
Glass coke bottles, suntanned skin Dust, stingin’ sweat, breathe out and in Cracklin suspense, wide worried eyes One, two the slow one dies Three, four, kickin up dust,
in white she was to be in in a different place eighteen of the ninth month it was to be white as an angel she was having papers of white time took its time
In June of 1870, my Great Great Granddad was playing Poker in the Old West.Even though he was shot, the law neglected to place the murderer under arrest.My Great Great Granddad wasn't being honest, he was cheating.
For Richard Boone Have Gun–Will Travel did not end much to soon. His skilled method acting and ridding well hid A loathing of horses he so deeply did.
As the sun started its steady descent He sat there rocking on his swing He listened to the birds chirp And there he quietly began to sing He sang about the soft blue skies