Rainy day in the mountains, not much activity around the ranch. 
He walks out the porch slowly, moving like new leather.
Tall, silver-haired,  face seemingly eroded by the weather 

A once proud man,  a legendary gunslinger around these parts.
He's old now, walks with a serious limp and a battered cane.
Broken by the life he chose and too many years of constant pain.

He feels him edging closer every year,  the grim reaper.
Ironic, always thought death would come swiftly, by way of the gun. 
Time running out, he decides to have a chat with his only son.

It's a lesson learnt the hard way, too late in his life.
You're fast but there'll always be someone faster, trust me on this son.
The one that gets you, is the one you should've walked away from.

Jeremy smiled, young, quick and strong, king of the world.
Practiced with his guns daily, sometimes till his thumbs bleed.
Drawing and shooting with deadly accuracy and blinding speed.

He became notorious, perhaps even more so than his old man.
Taking on all comers, never once has he ever backed down.
Twenty-three gunmen in a row, all of them currently underground.

The stranger at the bar was fairly old, they paid him no mind.
Must've gotten thrown from his horse or perhaps it's the whiskey.
Claims he's a gunfighter, in town just to take down Jeremy.

Twenty-four hours later the word filtered out to the ranch.
He rode into town on a magnificent coal-black stallion named Diablo.
Wearing his finest threads, dressed to kill, pearl handled revolver strapped low.

Hot breezy summer day when they faced off in the middle of main street.
They swore that the stranger's hands never left his side.
Jeremy's gun was still holstered, eyes wide open, when he died.

Bedridden, his father paid for the funeral and wrote his epitaph.
You're fast but there'll always be someone faster, trust me on this son.
The one that gets you, is the one you should've walked away from.