Classic Poem

Billy rode on a pinto horse—
Billy The Kid, I mean—
And he met Clyde Barrow riding
In a little gray machine.

Billy drew his bridle rein
And Barrow stopped his car,
And the dead man talked to the living man
Under the morning star.

Billy said to the Barrow boy,
“Is this the way you ride,
In a car that does its ninety per,
Machine guns at each side?”

“I only had my pinto horse
And my six-gun tried and true,
And I could shoot, but they got me at last,
And some day they'll get you!”

“For the men who live like you and me
Are playing a losing game,
And the way we shoot, or the way we ride
Is all about the same.”

“And the like of us may never hope
For death to set us free,
For the living are always after you
And the dead are after me!”

Then out of the East arose the sound.
Of hoof-beats with the dawn,
And Billy pulled his rein, and said,
“I must be moving on.”

And out of the West came the glare of a light
And the drone of a motor's song,
And Barrow set his foot on the gas
And shouted back, “So long!”

So into the East Clyde Barrow rode,
And Billy, into the West;
The living man who can know no peace,
And the dead who can know no rest.