The Ballad of Brellar Bob

Get around the campfire,
settle into them beans,
smell the roast of summer night
As I lay down these here scenes:

“There was a man named Bob,
Middlin' in age, pork-round in girth
He had a glint of the crazies in his eyes,
Rightly be feared due ter his size.

But old Bob, he was meek as a kitten,
Never harmed no fly,
Until one day he was smitten.
He was on his porch thinkin' without blinkin'
'How to bide the post-church afternoon?'
When all of a sudden he was bussin' to Gus's
the gun store of lore as many a toter from miles was drawn to its shine.
Bob, now he warn't no slinger,
No hunter in season, no triggerin' finger,
but the sweet lady of fate had other plans in mind
put him on a one way track, no lookin' behind.
He walked right in, looked about,
Eyes staring dimly, two careless scouts,
Until they found the answer staring them straight,
The twin-barreled ladies named Mabel and Lady Tate.
The shiniest of machine guns, the beast of the lot,
too expensive (and refined) to ever be bought,
two barrels on black-metal frame,
and Bob-- he weren't ever the same.
He stood up stiff, and walked up softly,
the ladies need love, as he told himself oftly,
he bowed a little, uncaring about the rest
stepped up to the challenge, to caress and test.
They say in moments when the angels are happy,
A man gets his day to rejoice and be free.

He saw himself in summer fields
firin' Mabe and 'Tate with unwholesome glee
It was all in slow-motion,
and the birds were packin' to flee;
his lonely heart found peace in this
Beyond the past, loves both hit and miss.

And straight home he galloped
to open the box,
the one with his savings,
in the drawer with his socks;
You can imagine now Gus's surprise
when with a wad of cash
that gun he buys.
'How can ya afford the twins on nothin' and change,
Why not try a single
smooth and long-range?'
Bob stood his ground, didn't hear a word
Gus might well've been conversin'
with his old uncle Bill's bovine herd:

He would only mutter these words o' wisdom
“Twice the guns is twice the funs.”

The rest is history, as they say,
henceforth and more,
and from that day,
The neighbourhood kids would hear the noise
of those guns a-poppin'
and since boys will be boys,
They gave him the name of old ' 'Brellar Bob,'
After the woe-begotten targets
of his gun's lead lobs.
That's right, kids and folks
Umbrellas he shot,
both handles and spokes...
The whole damn lot.

People would talk now and again,
about strange Bob's choice
against which to defend
Some say his ma were struck with a parasol
Others say it brought about his pa's downfall.
Ask him a question and he'd only reply
“Because today ain't Tuesday”
with a smile and a 'Bye.'

And so our story has a happy ending,
the town has it's tale
and Bob time-spending,
but I suggest that one of these days
in the summer sun
and the baling of the hays
take a trip about a mile's hike
to Bob's home turf
past the turnpike
To see a man ever-so satisfied
a man shy in life,
but in play dignified.
See his umbrella-dropping contraption:

hung from a rope on a tree
it would soar to the ground
just in time for his shootin'-spree.
I'll never ferget ol' Bob's line
as he hitched up the counterweight pail,
“If I see'd Mary Poppins
I'd be poppin' her sail.”