‘Tard Town has a new Sheriff. Clearly, the population of this town is very low, but I see many in the hinterlands that should be a citizen here. Outriders swoop into town to rustle up some bar fights with the natives, yet run back to the norm. Tumbleweed and sand is swallowing up the borderlands as far as the crow flies.
This corral has seen many a legend pass by and die here. Young pups that think they are men, with cold steel at their sides. Their fiery tempers have sent them early to their graves. The Gods tolerate the citizens here only so long, before we are all bound to see our Master’s Call. We are locked in a beautiful impasse where we own what we have, but cast off what we don’t.
The sun blazes here and we see just beyond our borders all those dogs chasing their tails. They wander from one subject to another not realizing that they should have already seen the conclusions. These dogs are lost and lack what the free citizens of the Corral have, an understanding. They hunt a game that has no meat. They scale a mountain that has no peak. They fight with wooden swords and yell with broken words. They don’t see the moon arise, while we Corral Folk see it all. We aren’t a part of the Absurd illogical topic sports and post padding. We are free from the monotone and the predictable.
We are the stone that make fantastic ripples upon a quiet lagoon. We set the world afire and know why we did it all. Living our death, and dying our life. We sit upon a throne made of those that came before us peering at those fools repeating themselves a thousand times over. The one place that one is safe is a graveyard. Where the swings have stopped, the grass stops waving and the niggers aren’t doing anything. This is the essence of the Corral.
We are the light at the end of the world. When all lights cease to sparkle we will shine with fire. An island where execution is a possibility, but that we don’t fear the Gods. We know that we shone such a brilliant glow that will continue to brighten the sky. For the death of a Corral Folk is a trial of the duality, of glory and melancholy. Although the winds that blow and the judgment of the Gods is always a reality. Even with the finality of one’s own mortality in the Corral one thread is stitched into us one and all: we would never do our lives before any different. We are resigned in our fate to live, rule and die here like a champion.
The others curse the judgment of the Gods that bring them kicking and screaming here, but if one has to drug here they won’t be warriors of the Corral Clan. For those that do, are quick to anger the Gods and are soon face to face with their maker. We don’t need borderlanders that would rather be posting their hatred of Muzzies in This Just In or what the niggers are doing in St.Paul. They need to continue to chase their tails in general discussion, while we observe and realize the calmness of the Corral. Where fights in the bar rooms happen from time to time; but peace is quickly restored.
