Stranger In Town

by Clive James and Pete Atkin

I never will remember how that stranger came to town
He walked in without a swagger, got a job and settled down
The place would have seemed the same without him
And now I can't recall a thing about him

He didn't wear a poncho or a gun with a filed sight
And he wasn't passing through like a freight-train in the night
He rarely wore a stetson with a shadowy big brim
And I still can't be sure if he was him

From Kansas to Wyoming, from Contention to Cheyenne
His name meant less than nothing and it didn't scare a man
So folks didn't worship him or fear him
And I can't remember ever going near him

He didn't tote a shotgun with the barrels both sawn off
So people didn't hit the deck or dive behind a trough
He walked the street in silence ignored on every side
And it's doubtful if he could even ride

I never could remember how that stranger met his death
He was absolutely senile, and with his dying breath
He forgot to ask his womenfolk to kiss him
And afterwards they didn't even miss him