Poetry Archives

Being a shorty, as you see,
          A bare five footer,
The why my wife is true to me
          Is my six-shooter.
For every time a guy goes by
          Who looks like a lover,
I polish it to catch his eye,
          And spin it over.

He notes its notches as I say:
          ‘Believe me, Brother,
If Junie ever goes astray,
          They’ll be another.’
A husband has to have a gun
          And guts to pull it:
Few fellows think a bit of fun
          Is worth a bullet.

For June would sit on any knee
          If it wore pants,
Yet she is faithful unto me,
          As gossip grants.
And though I know some six-foot guy
          Would better suit her,
Her virtue triumphs, thanks to my
          Six shooter.