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The wagons have been circled,
And the horses tethered down,
The Derry men peer out at leaden skies.
With every man a rifle,
And on every man a frown,
And somewhere off a lone coyote cries.
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General Kenny calls out
That his marksmen should not shoot
Until they see the colours of their eyes.
A grizzled camp supporter
Strikes a match against his boot,
And everyone starts firing in surprise.
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The noise is cataclysmic
As the rapid shots ring out.
In their midst, a piebald pony shies.
Huddled in a circle,
They are fearful of a rout,
For many are predicting their demise.
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Come a-sailing through the smoke,
Up above a big moon starts to rise.
General Kenny is indignant
And can’t comprehend the joke,
His face still resolutely on the prize.
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Give imaginary yells.
O’er the pall, a single condor flies.
Kenny’s taking potshots now
As mounting pressure tells –
Oh is he General Custer in disguise?