by
D. L. Charles
Copyright 2001
We dug a hole in that rock hard clay.
We dug it wide and we dug it deep.
We buried Billy Claymore on that hot summer day.
We laid him down for his last long sleep.
What can be said about such a man?
He was kind, he laughed, he could even be mean.
He tried his best in all he did, he had sand.
He'd do without, give to others when times were lean.
He had no family, least none that we knew.
He read books, and he could speak so grand.
A lot of folks were there, more than a few.
When we buried Billy Claymore -
We laid his guns upon his chest.
We put food and water in a bag at his side.
A chew of tobacco we placed with the rest.
The day we buried Billy Claymore, we did it with pride.
Then we went to the bar and we drank to him.
We told tall tales, each bigger than before.
We drank til we staggered, drunker than sin,
bragging about that man, Billy Claymore.
He could ride the hair off the wildest critter.
None ever beat him in a bare-
His green eyes could set the ladies' hearts a flitter.
He could work all day, and then dance all night.
It near broke our hearts to have him pass away.
A man bigger than life in all that he'd done.
It didn't make sense, him dying that way.
He was legend among us, this wild devil's son.
We buried Billy Claymore on a hot summer day.
His memory won't fade, he was a crazy old fool.
It still seems so funny, in a dumb kind of way.
He got kicked in the head, by a prospector's mule.
