Sly, Sly Butterfly

Fellas, it's happened to all of you. After weeks of point riding in the scorching heat that settles in the Midwest throughout the months of June and July you arrived to the first town you had seen since you left camp back in Laredo. Like a good cowboy should, the first stop you made was to the stables to have Eucalyptus, your blue roan stallion, taken care of and rested for the night. With your priorities in line you made your way to the saloon, just at sundown, when one side of town goes quiet, and the other begins to murmur temptation. Always on the lookout for familiar faces, some which could be friends and others which could be foes. You had never been to this town, yet it put you at ease to be among strangers. Slowly looking all around, you made it through the swinging doors. You could hear the whisper from many lips as you paced towards the bar. A stranger always has that effect, but perhaps it was the big iron on your hip. Before you call for your drink from the corner of your eye you notice fluttering, turn to see the dance hall slooze melting down the staircase to the rhythm of the music, grasping the rail with one hand and caressing her hair with the other. The mother of the spotlight in her lavish rags was now sharing beams of attention with you. Now as a traveled man you knew best not to be slinging your gun belt around the bedposts of women like her. But you were in her sights and despite being in jeopardy, your nectar was luring her in. Well a couple drinks later you wake up to yourself in your room. After a minute of reflection you get up and wash up and in your second round of reflection you noticed a conspicuous rash confined to a small space. Somewhere in the night you let go of your guns, they fired off, and certainly there was a show. How could this be, you know you knew better than this. You knew she was sly, but-her-fly ways swept you off your boots. Now you have a hickey…oops!