Slim and Stumpy had been good partners
since the days when names were shortened
'Cause questions weren't always healthy to ask,
and it wasn't considered important.
They'd stuck together through thick and thin,
just a couple of tough old sinners,
But these crusty old pards found times were hard
and both of them kept gettin' thinner.
Ol' Stumpy rode into town last week,
just to see the "ediator"
Of the weekly Bumble Bee Tribune
'bout twelve o'clock or later.
"Now what can I do for you, Stumpy?"
Stumpy lifted his eyes toward heaven,
And twisting that grubby old hat in his hands,
Said,"Cliff, Slim died this mornin''round seven."
Cliff pushed the green eyeshade back on his brow,
and he patted the bony old shoulder;
He recalled that he'd seen this old fellow last week,
and today he looked twenty years older.
"You'll want to put something in about Slim
To let people know he's departed."
Cliff was taking the pencil from back of his ear,
but Stumpy had already started:
"Sylvester Lasiter Isaac 'Slim' Moore --
Put 'Slim' in them little do-hickies,
and use that darker sort of print --
Ol' Slim was always right picky.
"Sylvester Lasiter Isaac 'Slim' Moore --
best pardner a man could draw,
departed this vale . . .' no, make that 'trail'
. . .Oh, put 'He come from Arkansas.'"
Cliff cleared his throat, "It's five dollars a word,"
Stumpy scratched his head, "That follers.
Then just write 'Slim's dead,'" the old man said,
"I only got ten dollars."
"Look, I'll give you three words free, Old Pal,"
Stumpy said, "Now, Cliff, you ortn't."
Cliff, seeing his plight, said,"Stump, it's all right.
Now just write what's most important."
Stumpy was quiet and his rheumy old eyes
seemed gazing down some far off trail.
He pondered long; then with voice firm and strong,
Ol' Stumpy said, "Horse for sale!"
© Buckshot Dot 2000