There was a young cowboy-a gunslinger by fame,
who had made for himself in this life somewhat of a name.
They say there was none faster in all the land:
for the mark of the wind that was his true brand.
Was there no one who was fast enough to surpass his fast draw?
Was there no one anywhere who could take down this outlaw?

A stranger boldly stepped out as he made his stand.
He too, assuredly would end up face down in the sand.
It was high noon as they met there in the street.
There was no doubt to who'd go down in defeat.
As they stood there facing each other prepared to slap leather;
in the crowd's silence one could hear the drop of a feather.

The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife:
cause they knew the stranger was about to lose his life.
Soon it'd be made known who'd remain on his feet,
or who the Maker would be sooner to meet;
for the very air around them was completely smoke thickened,
but when the dust had settled to the winner they quickened.

From the loser's chest flowed blood the color of wine.
As he was duly measured for a simple box of pine
it wouldn't be long until the word went out;
clearly not leaving even the slightest doubt
about what the stranger had so suitably done,
and that in all assuredness there was no faster gun.

There was a young cowboy-a gunslinger by fame...