In June of 1870, my Great Great Granddad was playing Poker in the old West.
Even though he was shot, the law neglected to place the murderer under arrest.
My Great Great Granddad wasn’t being honest, he was cheating.
He was plugged through the heart and his heart stopped beating.
When he was exposed as a cheater, the killer blew him away.
Even though it was murder, the law never made that man pay.
When my Great Great Granddad cheated the killer, it was wrong, that is something I won’t deny.
But when that man got off scott free, it was also wrong, my Great Great Granddad didn’t deserve to die.
This is a fictional poem.