DESPERADO
More than one hundred years ago he lived,
In a small village somewhere in Mexico, a boy.
Poor was his family as each day was a struggle,
There were those close by, the bad ones who stole everything.
A day came when his village was destroyed, family killed,
Survived did he to one day grow to be a man.
Revenge would be his only friend, not a bad man was he,
With pistolas at his side he would seek justice.
They called him desperado, a no good criminal,
He stole from them who once took everything meaningful.
His gun did the talking, anger ate at his soul,
He lived by campfire, ate what he shot or stole,
Justice was one day his, his reward was always on the run.
Keith Garrett
keithgarrettpoetry 
I wanted to email th is but don’t see an option. Day is spelled wrong. I don’t call out writers, lik I said, no email. Feel free to delete my comment after editing.
See, even I misspell lol
Thanks
Ah, I love the feeling I get when reading your poems. This one makes me think of tall tales or old legends. There is always a sense of adventure in your work.
Cheers! ^_^
Thank you so much
On Tue, Sep 20, 2016 at 5:06 PM, keithgarrettpoetry wrote:
>