As the southwest sun slowly fades,
the low tones of the whispering crowd
can barely be heard above the noise
that the rustling winds and the
scurrying sage brush made.
Silhouetted in the sunset, astride his
trusty steed with the rope of death
hanging precariously from that
sturdy oak tree, and tightly
drawn around the neck of
that horse thieving kid
named…Billy Lee.
No court, no judge,
no jury, no justice
to be had.
Eighteen he was and had no friends,
a drifter, thief and low down
scoundrel, so they say.
But the truth was not
spoken on that day.
The crowd screamed and
demanded Billy’s life.
He knew he would never
again see his young wife.
And justice did not prevail,
so they said, for on that day
they slapped that horse and
hung poor Billy by the neck
until dead.
Which goes to prove that
sometimes justice is truly
blind.