Rough sands of the West
blew across the frontier.
100 miles to the town but
Miss Prescott was unclear.
She said, ‘how much further
until we start to see
the evergreen mountains
of this Galilee?’
Dumb Tim the coachman,
who usually signed,
spoke a few words back:
‘the trees are behind.’
Gesturing his finger
towards far off hills,
that’s when Miss Prescott
first got the chills.
She’d always been weak
since she fell in the river,
but something in the distance
too made her shiver.
Distant, craggy rocks
moved up and down,
yet it was not the Earth churning;
it was an Indian crown.
Still the convoy went onwards
as no one had seen
the danger on the horizon
or what it may mean.
The calling got louder
the closer they came,
and Coachmaster Morgan
called out her name.
‘I love you Miss Prescott
so please promise me this:
once I dispatch of these Indians
we’ll share marital bliss.’
Miss Prescott was stunned
and knew not what to say.
The heightened sounds of the warriors
led her to pray.
‘Oh please protect us, Lord,
from imminent doom.
For I am too young
to lie in a tomb.’
Morgan charged off
on his standardbred, brazen.
About 20 men followed
the sight was amazing.
When both parties met
at the base of the canyon,
the fighting was fierce
and made not a champion.
Dumb Tim drew the wagon
up to the dead men.
Miss Prescott jumped out
and cawed like a hen.
Coachmaster Morgan
was spread on his front.
Shot like a buffalo
pursued on a hunt.
All over his body
arrows stood tall.
Some of the folks whispered,
that he was dead on the fall.
Miss Prescott turned him over
and looked in his eyes.
She could tell that his death
had been a surprise.
‘Please know that I thank you
as we can now go
and proceed to the West
whence money shall flow.
I really did not want
a proposal or marriage,
regardless of whom,
would steer that wedding carriage.
So I was being honest
when words whipped you like leather.
I meant what I said:
‘Not now. Not ever.”
The Disinterested Philosopher Gets By 