I was the fastest gun in the Wild West.
I could draw and fire before a man could blink an eye.
I lived by the gun. I died with a bullet in my chest.
I knew my hand was swift, my aim the best.
Yet I was no bloodthirsty gunslinger passing by.
I was the fastest gun in the Wild West.
My father trained me hard; I passed his test.
He bought me a gun belt and pistols money could buy.
I loved those guns. I died with a bullet in my chest.
I worked on my father’s ranch, a cowboy like the rest.
I learned every cowboy’s job and never would lie.
I was the fastest gun in the Wild West.
My fame spread wide when I won a quick-draw contest.
Young gunslingers came to prove their speed and try.
My fame became a curse. I died with a bullet in my chest.
But age slowed my hand; my glory passed its crest.
One day a young man beat me as my family stood by.
I was the fastest gun in the Wild West.
I lived by the gun. I died with a bullet in my chest.
