blew over on The Gulf Stream,
piled up on Plymouthian shores,
burying the place
like a mural preserved under concrete.
No sooner had dune settled,
but the Swilly Kid rocked up,
'though, he had no chance,
stood opposite Sherwell Church
waited Wild Bill Honicknowle
declaring Mutley Law
and challenging to a draw.
The burlesque dancers piled
and gawped in awe
as showdown took place.
The great bells of St Andrew sang,
an old dittie about ‘Wishing they was in Dixie’
something to the likes of that tune,
and as they roared their metallic melody,
a tumble weed rolled by...
Swilly the Kid had backup,
Morice, Manadon and the youngest of the Peverell boys,
stood in support, ready to open fire,
with rifles and alike,
but Wild Bill Honicknowle was not alone either,
with Doc Mannamead and Butch Cattedown,
keeping both eyes locked firmly on opposing targets.
It would be a bloodbath,
The Battle of North Hill,
and the thrill of such a fight,
could cast chills on the now desertscape,
of the lawless Ocean City.
True Grit, fill your hands,
here they come,
From the library,
approaching in distance,
is the peacekeeper,
Lord Mayor presiding,
whose arrival was
to prevent a tragedy.
In earnest, settled challenge,
by rallying bands together,
words of unity, common goals,
and a drive for the City so alive with wild passion.
The bells rang out,
praising order that had been brought,
to a town wrought
by the afflictions fallen of the new frontier.
The great bells of St Andrew sang once more,
a new dittie titled ‘She’ll be coming ‘round Mount Batten’
and when she comes,
arrives and plays role,
the toll and troll of wildness,
so a great silence of peace can be heard,
and the tumble weed rolls,
rolls on by,
as the bells once again,