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At
Black's general store, in the year of our Lord, eighteen hundred and
seventy four,
Way south of the hills and west of the mills, there folks settled soon
after the war.
They could buy what they'd need, from buttons to seed, bolt cloth and
ever much more.
For miles around, sat no other town, and clearly no other such store.
But for all its good trade, and the money it made, Black's fame arose
from out back.
As there in the dim, an Indian named Jim, did tattoos in a tumbled down
shack.
A Piute by race with an ugly old face, skill learned from a Chinese
named Wu.
He could etch any scene, or draw any mien, a Matisse at the art of tattoo.
With each man that he did, cowpoke or farm kid, renown grew from his
visible art,
There were dragons displayed, an Indian maid, a girlfriend or wife on
a heart.
Tall ships out at sea, wolves showing their teeth, Dear Old Mom, a popular
choice.
Jim dyed and he painted, some customers fainted, but never did he raise
his own voice.
From out of the plains, hard holding his reins, came a bad sort with
gun hanging low.
Where's Indian Jim? He'd heard of him, and that's all he wanted to know.
He took up a jug, spat out the plug, and challenged each man in the
store,
But none took the dare, every one was aware, they'd be dead before they
hit the floor.
They pointed out back, to the crumbled old shack, where Jim sat alone
in the shade.
The outlaw declared he wasn't a-scared, he'd get the biggest tattoo
ever made.
"On my barrel chest, I want 'a scene o' the west', with cactus and sage
and a butte!"
He hefted the jug, took another long slug, getting himself as drunk
as a snoot.
Well, ol' Jim went to work, a-tattooing the jerk, a great opus of dye
colored skin.
There were cacti and sages, buttes of the ages, he was sure to get them
all in.
It took hours to do, the brute slept right on through, whiskey working
its own numbing way.
And when he awoke, at ten on the stroke, it was morning of the very
next day.
In the mirror he saw, with a great slackened jaw, a tattoo of the size
that he'd said,
But in front of the scene, sage with cactus between, was a beaut of
Jim's ugly head.
Well, a ruckus arose, you know how it goes, when a gunman just can't
see the light.
It was sad in the town and for miles around, Jim was buried that very
same night.
On his tombstone it reads, "Below these here weeds, lies our dearly
departed pal,
He was ugly as sin, and that done him right in, shot dead by a .44 cal."
So Jim if you do, give God a tattoo, keep your mug off of his holy skin,
Or he'll send you way down, to the devil's hometown, that's all dear
pard, Amen.
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