The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance

The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (A Sonnet in Western Colours)

In the dusty lanes of a sun‑burnt frontier town,
A lawman’s silhouette crossed the wooden rail,
While gossip swirled like wool in a frying pan,
And every soul who saw him swore a shrill sal‑talis.

Brewster, the cop of a quiet British colony,
Wore a battered leather jacket, his conscience a plumb‑line,
He said, “I’ll finish them both, the men and the myth,
For a man’s freedom must be honest, no varnish.”

The little folk bowed, hands clutching their whiskery cups,
A poor old farmer dust‑shovel he’d never used,
For in that roar of bullets, the carried burden fell.

Liberty Valance, a name that rang in every pub,
The tyrant’s reputation doubled as the gunshot sang,
And in the dust‑smouldered echo, the truth did trie‑a‑fur‑show.

When the pistol's breath hit the tyrant’s arm,
The town, the folk, the pubs, all aged with a new colour;
The hero’s sacrifice, an honouring classic picture.

Now the legends simmer down to a whisper‑wise tip‑toe,
The man who shot Liberty Valance, now remembered,
A blessing to the future, a quiet, reverent drop.