[A long time ago, a friend asked me to write lyrics for his band. I drew this up promptly and as far as I know it was never used.]

Brummie, the big fat Dutchman,
He strode into town
The sun was setting and the sky was dark
And there were few of us around

Brummie, the big fat Dutchman
With greasy hair of flax
One hand gripped a carpet bag
The other clutched an axe

He grinned at what few stood around
Leaned on his axe like a crutch
But what he proclaimed, no one knew
Because nobody here speaks Dutch

Whatever it was, it was proud and strong
His eyes were shining bright
His confidence carried those weird-ass vowels
Into the folds of the night

Brummie, the big fat Dutchman
In wool from head to foot,
With mottled, tweedy trousers
And a greatcoat colored soot

That corpulent pig grinned at us
Or maybe it was a leer
The difference was way too subtle
For none stood very near

A young boy ran for the sheriff
And the Dutchman started to laugh
And he hurled that wicked heavy axe
And chopped that boy in half

All the men went for their guns
All the women ran and hid
A hateful tension froze the air
After what that Dutchman did

Brummie, the big fat Dutchman
Took one slow step, then two
And a dozen fingers squeezed a dozen triggers
Because we guessed what he might do

His shoulders shuddered, his back seized up,
But he never broke his stride
The arm that reached out for his axe
Was filled with lead inside

We emptied all our chambers
And took turns to reload
A dozen men firing on the Dutchman
Bleeding in the road

He never lost his crazy smile
And never once slowed down
Walking through this ring of fire
In the center of our town

He reached his axe and hefted it
Looking mighty rough
And the sheriff stepped up and cleared his throat
And said, “Son, that’s enough.”

He said, “I’m what guards this town
I protect its denizens,
And it’s my job to deal with those
Who aren’t here to make friends.

“You showed up here from nowhere,
Around half-past nine,
And slew that gentle little boy
The only son of mine.”

The sheriff hung his head a sec
While Dutchy shifted his weight
And when the sheriff looked again
His eyes were filled with hate

He said, “I rule with an even hand
Because I love this town.
But you, so violent and so foreign,
You are going down.”

The sheriff whipped his sidearms out
And blazed with ammunition
The bullets that should have slain his foe
Never once changed his condition

Some bounced off his coat, perhaps,
But most just went straight through.
Old Brummie stood there laughing,
Bullets piling around his shoe

And when the rounds were good and spent
His axe raised toward the skies
It came down hard on the sheriff’s skull
And split him ‘tween the eyes

A few men swore, a few men wept,
A couple shat their pants,
And all of us stared in horror
As the Dutchman started to dance

His feet dragged in a shuffle
And his hips began to sway
He lashed out with his trusty axe
And knocked Jacob’s head away

It rolled to Isaac’s cowboy boots
And Isaac got it next
We finally started to retreat
While Brummie stood and flexed

I hid inside a rain barrel
Couldn’t see what was going on
But heard one man after another
Cry out, but not for long

I heard the beat of boots on dirt
The tear of limb from limb
I heard Zeke pleading to his God
And that’s the last I heard from him

Then silence fell in the cold night air
And not a creature stirred
Except Brummie, who paused to catch his breath
And mutter a foreign word

I hid and waited half an hour
Not longing much to die
But curiosity compelled me
To peek out with one eye

Brummie, the big fat Dutchman
Stood up and cleared his throat
He tossed aside his bloody axe
Ad reached into his coat

He drew a shiny metal object
That kindled my worst fears
For in his porcine hand he held
A pair of gelding shears

He went from man to dying man,
Where they lay on the ground,
Yanked their pants and made a snip,
A horrid, meaty sound

He clipped his prize and dropped it in
The carpet-tailored sack
He harvested about 15 pair
Then stopped to stretch his back

With that, he snapped his bag up tight
As wolves began to bay
He took his axe and turned around
And simply walked away

And I’m the sole survivor
Of the men once in that town
I’ve spread this tale by word of mouth
And had it written down

He wasted all my kinfolk
Best hope he don’t find y’alls
Because Brummie, the big fat Dutchman
Has got a lot of balls