Old Betsy is my shotgun and she keeps most salesmen away.
But some come on my property but they sure as hell don’t stay.
Old Betsy shoots the hats off of their heads and she shatters their windshields.
Because of Old Betsy, they drive away because they think that they’ll be killed.
One man took off running and left his car behind.
I don’t know who he was but now his car is mine.
One salesman thought that I’m a transvestite because he had heard rumors.
That damn moron was trying to sell me a dress and a pair of women’s bloomers.
I shot the cigar right out of that idiot’s mouth.
He jumped in his car and started driving south.
They try to unload junk on me but because of Old Betsy, they fail.
If you ever come on my property, you’d better not be trying to sell.
This is a fictional poem.