He was a bad man from Willer Crick.
On his birthday suit grows feathers thick.
Feathers and tar instead of a grave,
Mistook for an editor ’cause of a shave.
Magpie reads it all through. He sets down on a box, rolls a smoke, and
reads it some more. He walks out to the door, looks around, and comes
back.
“Who?” he asks.
“Paradise folks, Magpie.”
“Did you see him in here?”
“Uh-huh. He was laying for us.”
“Pshaw!”
Magpie takes his gun out and looks it over, sad-like. He stares at the
door for a minute, and then—
“What’s the notice on the door?”
He walks over and looks. Somebody has printed a notice and pinned it
on that busted door, and she reads like this—