Without even turning a hair.
But the thing that’ll double bar my soul,
When it flaps at heaven’s doors,
Was peddling booze to the Santa Cruz
And Winchester forty-fours.
Made unafraid by my hellish aid,
The drink crazed brutes came down
And left a blazing, quivering mass
Of a flourishing border town.
I then took charge of a smuggler’s barge,