It was a bright, sunny morning in Felchville, the roughest, toughest town in all of Urea County, Texas (although nearby Cesspit City was held by many impartial observers to be equally rough and tough, at least in terms of its poor sewage disposal arrangements). Many of the good folks of Felchville (or Felchers as they were known throughout Urea County) had assembled in the street, lining up to enter the Town Meeting Room to hear the Mayor’s announcement of the winner of the Annual Poetry Contest and its prestigious $5 cash prize. The Poetry Contest was the opening event of Felchville’s famous carnival and emotions often ran high as the effects of endless shots of “Old Urea 80% proof Texas Whiskey” took their toll of people’s natural charm and friendliness. Basil “Butch” Sweetlove, the most manly sheriff in all of Texas, stood in the street, picking some of the larger bits of snot out of his handsome nose and carefully flicking them into the dust. He had a feeling in his guts that this would be a trying day for him and his equally brave deputy.
Inside the meeting hall, the eager townsfolk sat waiting to hear their civic leader address them. Since there was no running water in the town and bathing was regarded as unmanly, it would be fair to say that the air was thick with body odour, coupled with stale cowshit. Several of the less sturdy ladies fainted with erotic excitement at the stench of their masculine neighbours. Mayor Billy “No Teeth” Blackbeard rose unsteadily to his feet and addressed the crowd.
‘Ladies and gents, fellow Felchers, y’all real welcome here today! Ah won’t waste none of youse time by pontif-eye-catin’ none about this here poetry contest and Ah’ll just say the winner sure wrote the finest poem Ah ever read in my entire life, yessiree. And so, folks, Ah’m real proud to tell y’all that this year’s winner of the five buck prize and real gen-u-ine plated silver cup this year is none other than Stuttering Cyril Stanton, the town’s assistant gravedigger! So, put your hands together for Cyril to read out his winning poem, “Home on the Range”!’
Cyril Stanton shyly stood up, acknowledged the stunned silence of the crowd, pocketed the five dollars, took a hefty swig of lukewarm whiskey from his battered old tin mug, and began to read his winning poem:
“H-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-home on th-th-th-the r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-range
Wh-wh-wh-where the m-m-mouse and th-th-th-th-the rattlesnake play
Wh-wh-wh-where n-n-n-never is seen, n-n-n-noth-th-thing obscene
And the c-c-c-cowboys aren‘t gayboys, n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-no way.’
Cyril smiled shyly and sat down, narrowly missing a volley of bullets from the sixguns of two of the losing poets.
‘Now, listen here, folks,’ the Mayor said, ‘Ah surely do think you should be a sight more gracious to the winner, ’specially since if you don’t Ah’ll fill y’all full o’ lead!’ He sniffed dangerously and continued, ‘Now next, good people of Felchville, Texas, Ah have great pleasure in announcing that the other carnival events today will be the trial of the four prisoners held in the town gaol by our good Sheriff, Basil Sweetlove, followed by a public hanging and then afterwards, folks, we’all goin’ to have a real good barn dance down at the “Old Whorehouse Saloon” on Main Street, with half-price whiskey for the men and free lemonade for the fairer sex!’
‘When’s Judge Bogthorpe arriving, Mr Mayor?’ yelled out old “Yellowteeth” Jones, the town schoolteacher, ‘and in any case, how y’all know he’s gonna find those four varmints guilty?’
‘Judge Bogthorpe’ gone and died, boy,’ answered the Mayor, ‘and they done sending us Judge Derek Doombringer instead, and he’s a-knowed far and wide as the Hanging Judge and he don’t not never find no one innocent! So you rest assured we got ourselves a real good multy-ple hanging today!’
Only now did the assembled crowd of townsfolk burst out into spontaneous applause and cheering. They knew, sure to God, that there was quite simply nothing quite like a quadruple hanging in front of the old wooden church to make the carnival go with a real swing. Literally.
'‘C-c-c-can I p-p-p-pull the r-r-r-r-rope?’ enquired the poetry contest victor, more in hope than serious expectation.
Adding your comment:
