The Non-Ballad of Thomas Bryer

Tuesday, 18th February 1997

On a cold winter's morning in 1814
Stood a man with a gun and a bottle of gi-i-n
In the rush town of Ratchett in New Mexico-o-o-o
He held a small arrow to destiny's bo-o-ow

Old Thomas Bryer, the town knew him well
He could knock back tequila and whisky like hell
He panhandled coins for his boozing all da-a-a-ay
And done nothin' for no-one that anyone could saa-a-ay

Now history sings of our heroes of o-o-old
How they'd sail to the west and bring back the go-o-o-old
But nobody sings of the people forgo-o-ot
Who did nothing but stay in a small town and ro-o-ot

That cold winter morning was not felt by Bryer-r-r-r-r
His brain was a stone and his kidneys on fi-i-ire
No tears in his eyes with the gun to his he-e-e-e-e-e-e-eaaad
Then his liver gave out and it dropped like le-e-e-ead

Now history sings about kinsfolk who fought
The ones who escaped and the ones who got cau-au-aught
But a pointless existence and pitiful de-e-e-e-eath
Isn't worth a long song or anyone's bre-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-eath.

E-e-e-e-e-e-eathhhhh....

E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-eathhhhh....

E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-eathhhhh....


B (prose and cons for better or for verse)