The Shootists:
Out in Raton where the wind whispers clear, The Shootists gather, year after year. A week to live the dream, to stand side by side, Where time’s measured by the smoke and the pride.
From every corner of this vast land they come, Young, old, thin, stout, every shape, everyone. Single actions cocked, levers pulled, steel on fire, They stand as equals, each with a heart’s desire.
The Shootists the one you’d ride the river with, A bond that’s built, silent, but stiff. A week’s too fast, like a bullet’s swift flight, But it’s the first week of the year, a moment so bright.
Since ’86, it’s been John’s dream, To forge an honor that’s lived, not seen. A gathering of hands, rough and true, Each gun tells a story, old and new.
Six-guns ring in the morning’s first light, A shooter’s holiday, the world feels right. From the hills to the valley, the legend still grows, A brotherhood bound where the wild wind blows.
So we meet again, and the week goes too fast, But the Shootists stand firm, and the memory will last.
~BT