Spaghetti Western
The man with no name became the high plains
drifter shooting Italian bad guys day
after day for taking his soul away.
The good, the bad, and the ugly still stains
the screen at night and gives me stomach pains.
They paint the town red much to my dismay
and parade a midget, amid gunplay,
around on an ass; no, it never rains
(have you ever noticed?) Not one soul leaves
the set, they are recycled like the suns
and yet you never see the actors sheaves
of tongues in cheeks, and with one last breath
of tortured confusion, the whole town runs
(from Clint, linguini - spined cowards! ) from death.
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