“Nothin’ but a one-horse twin,”
disparages sexy Sheriff Dyslexia,
staring arrogant at the Dustbite Boys
astride their poor swaybacked pony.

At low noon, a Siamese centaur gallops down,
mythic hooves rolling with the tumbleweeds,
corded torsos backed like Janus,
arrows raised in a riot of elbows.

The Sheriff hears “raw!” instead of “draw!”
and while she scans in confusion
for sores in the absence of saddle
the hostile horsey Cupids pierce her heart.

They steal her star and hit the bar,
sling whiskey, then twinnish insults
about who’s the horse’s ass.
One shoots: they’re both scored.

When the monster’s cold, the ichor dried,
enter the janitors: the Dustbite Boys,
boots and guns shined like Sunday,
swayback pony snorting proud.

They’ll hire a yellow Yankee paperman
and clean up as pulpbound heroes
instead of star-stuck survivors who simply
skipped to the end of the horse opera’s libretto.