The Land Of Whiskey Paradise, Where Love Was

I wrote this about my old girlfriend.

Belle Star never found the land of whiskey paradise where she thought love was. A horsethief friend in the end was nothing, but someone to help her find a bullet and the blues.

The territory was Indian. The buildings were made of rough lumber, false fronted like the bowler hat merchants in Guthrie.

Guns came to the hand easy in those spotted horse days.

Calico she wore pushed to the side as she lay with Cole Younger. It anit always cheep to feed a body's hunger. And she gave him a daughter, they made love in a barn of hay, dust and heat; there wasn't any time for grief.

She loved Robbers for friends, and had soul to give souls.

Greasy biscuits she gave to men with Greasy scuffed Winchesters and Peacemakers for shooting stars on dark night rides. Just like Belle Star.

Stars also worn by lawmen on bay horses, sitting saddled frowning, the reach of horse law, buggies, wagons, telegraph wire.

Was she lovely? Only to dusty memory, in faded photos cracked. Love and rules was all she lacked. She went down to the place of no return and returned only to either heaven or hell, all

Depending on what outlaw, lawman, preacher, farmer, cowboy, or hanging judge, was a' talking about her in the land of whiskey paradise that

She never found

Six feet she lays in the ground, her love not returned,

Or bound.