‘The Ballad of Baldy McCass’ by Julian Woodruff

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The Ballad of Baldy McCass

Canteen I
From Utah to Colorado
rode that wily desperado.
Sometimes off to wild Wyoming
or Nevada he went roaming.
In late afternoons towards banks,
high society’s rare ranks,
coaches, too, slanted his shadow,
having stolen o’er the meadow.
Spring and summer, fall and winter
posters came from every printer,
hung alike from wood and glass:
__“Wanted: Reward—one thousand cash.”
__The villain’s name: Baldy McCass.

Canteen II
Baldy’s looks lay deep in mystery,
shrouded all throughout his history.
Face masked almost to his eyebrows,
he’d affright the local highbrows.
But in hold–ups he was known
to have tipped his hat, then flown.
A small thing, a mere suggestion,
subject, though, to posses’ question.
“So, McCass is bald, we know.”
“Naw—it’s just a wig, for show.
Baldy’s cagey. He’s no dope.”
__“Well, wig or no, we now have hope
__that soon McCass will stretch a rope!”

Canteen III
Now McCass, as he rode off
from his hold-ups, liked to scoff
at pursuers. He would shred
Tens and twenties as he fled,
tossing bits along his path,
kindling every posse’s wrath.
Baldy’s bullets they’d be dodging
as they sought protective lodging
‘mongst the cacti, scared (if seething):
which of them would be left breathing?
Baldy’s capture everyone
__swore to accomplish, with a gun
__or any means under the sun.

Canteen IV
Just how Baldy met his fate
it’s my privilege to relate.
Normal spots where lucre’s stored
he’d attack. Yet he’d get bored.
Then his plans he’d burst asunder
from a yen for rarer plunder.
Thus it happened one day he
stepped into Holt’s Gallery,
filled with varied dreams and wishes—
bows and fiddles, large stuffed fishes,
silver flatware, broken clocks,
__and hand–embroidered satin socks;
__and thought, Opportunity knocks!  

Canteen V
Baldy soon amassed much loot:
ladies’ trinkets, waxen fruit,
Chinaware, and silverplate—
all his greed for spoils to sate.
He was headed for the door
of that splendid little store,
when a beauteous young lady
wearing black, though hardly shady,
with her words stopped Baldy cold
(as it afterwards was told):
“Golly, Ma, how that man reeks!
__Audubon sketches? Rare Belleeks?
__He’s hardly fit for fine antiques!”

Canteen VI
Baldy nearly dropped his treasures.
This would call for drastic measures
such as he could scarcely train
his mind to: it swelled his brain.
Off his hat came, off he went,
all red with embarrassment.
Never mind the trailing posse:
them he hardly gave a toss. He
galloped on, his soul on fire
with a wholly new desire:
to become completely clean,
__with skin of an attractive sheen,
__appealing to some fair Colleen.

Canteen VII
Waters from the wide Missouri
never would provide a cure: he
would be washed in all its mud,
silt, and algae—just a dud!
What to do, then? Baldy wondered,
smoked peyote some, and pondered.
Just the spot—Winchester City!
That’s the place where dudes get pretty.
He prepared to pay a call
at Frank Abernathy’s Hall.
He knew well some rooms therein
__had bathtubs and, with luck, some gin,
__well up above the barroom’s din.

Canteen VIII
From the roof above the alley,
with its view of Dead Man’s Valley,
Baldy hunted for the room
of Frank’s gal, Fiona Broom.
She, McCass knew, would be slinking
in the bar while men were drinking
health away on bootleg rum
sold to them by Frank (the bum!).
Window sash up, Baldy through,
Bath just poured, as if on cue.
Baldy wondered at such luck:
__How, undetected, he was struck,
__To fill that tub? I’d just be stuck!    

Canteen IX 
Baldy wasn’t in a hurry.
He stripped down without a worry,
for his trusty Colt revolver
was a potent problem solver.
He disposed it close at hand.
Then occurred something unplanned:
his gun slipped from off the rim
of the tub into the dim
waters of the waiting bath!
Nothing neared McCass’s wrath.
But that bath was worth a chance:
__Who’d show up from the song and dance
__to thwart his plans for life’s romance?

Canteen X
Clothes peeled off, the water tested,
Baldy plunked his hairy-chested
body down into the tub,
grabbed a cloth with which to scrub
dust and grime of miles and years
from his frame, big toe to ears.
Ah, hot water! So delicious!
Sponge at hand—oh how propitious! 
thought he as he flexed his toes.
Next, I guess I’ll wash those clothes.              
But the rub—another kind—
__bleak fate seemed to have had in mind:
__putting McCass in quite a bind.

Canteen XI
At the height of relaxation,
much to Baldy’s consternation,
wide the door flew open, and
in the doorway who should stand
but Fiona, who’d stopped crooning,
leaving all those menfolk mooning.
Seems her golden voice had got a
frog from singing Traviata.
Throat and lungs, though, served her well:
She let out a fearsome yell
that raised wavelets on her gown.
__It could be heard all over town.
__Baldy was caught with his pants down.

Canteen XII
Here then ends McCass’s story.
Clean he was, yet oh so sorry;
but just for himself, you know:
Baldy and his kind don’t go
in for sympathizing much
if we fail when in the clutch.
Baldy and his like don’t cotton
to our plight when we feel rotten.
While on trial and facing sentence
Baldy offered no repentance,
no redeeming hint of class.
__We send him off thus (yes, we’re crass):
__Baldy McCass—bald head, bare ass.

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Julian D. Woodruff, who contributes poetry frequently to the Society of Classical Poets, writes poetry and short fiction for children and adults. He recently finished 2020-2021, a poetry collection. A selection of his work can be read at Parody Poetry, Lighten Up Online, Carmina Magazine, and Reedsy.