A hot wind was blowing hard,
as the sweat ran down his face,
his horse had been running at full pace.
He could see the posse coming fast
up the rugged mountain pass.
His saddlebags were heavy with gold
and the banker he shot, paid a heavy toll.
Tom Dooly was his name and bank robbery
was his game. He had lived a life of crime and
he laughed at lawmen as he had escaped every time.
But the bank he robbed today would be his last, for his
trusty hose stumbled, fell and pinned Tom’s thieving ass.
The posse was riding hard up the draw and came upon
Tom, arresting him without firing a shot at all.
The old hanging tree was to be his fate, a hangman’s rope
around his neck, Tom Dooly paid in spades for his life of crime,
and I am so sorry, that this poem doesn’t rhyme!