Theres a new grace up on Boot Hill, where weve planted Rowdy Pete;
He died one evenin, sudden, with his leather on his feet;
He was Cactus Centers terror with that work of art, the Colt,
But, somehow, without warnin, he up and missed his holt.
His favrite trick in shootin was to grab his victims right,
Then draw his own revolver and the rest was jest "Good-night";
He worked it in succession on nine stout and well-armed men,
But a sickly-lookin stranger made Petes feet slip up at ten.
Pete had follered out his programme and had passed the fightin word;
He grabbed the strangers right hand, when a funny thing occurred;
The stranger was left-handed, which Pete hadnt figgered out,
And, afore he fixed his error, Peter was dead beyond all doubt.
It was jest another instance of a flaw in work of man;
A lefty never figgered in the gunmans battle plan;
There aint no scheme man thinks of that Dame Nature cannot beat
So his pupils are unlearnin that cute trick they got from Pete.
