—Cisco, you are loco in the head
Cisco hath murdered sleep, the sheriff said;
But Pancho told him when the deed was done,
They were eating tortillas somewhere else,
In Mesa Verde, which was dun and bare.
Your hands are scarlet, said the deputy,
Incarnadined or something. Pancho said,
The tumbleweeds tell all you need to know.
Cisco brushed grit off his embroidery,
Adjusted his somebrero, and pursued
The banker's daughter, calling to his fate,
It is the east, and I am someone's son.
The sheriff was not all that mollified.
As usual, they had to flee the town,
Eat tepid victuals in a desert night,
And top their frijoles with unsummoned stars.
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