When I Was A Cowboy

When I was a cowboy, toting a six shooter
and aiming to fill the baddies full of lead,
my horse was an armchair. I sat astride an arm
and rode him hard. My spurs jangled. Sometimes
they caught on his side and pulled a thread.

Often I was Robin Hood. I hid
in the depths of the Sherwood Forest
that grew in our lounge. My arrows would fly
and bounce off the upholstered furniture
or stick to the doors and windows.

Occasionally I got captured and languished
in a dungeon for a month of minutes.
I grew a cotton wool moustache and beard
(held on by Sellotape). Many guards died
when I fought my way out.

But when I became Superman
I protected the vulnerable
and saved numerous lives. I was invincible
until the kryptonite got me
and my powers and life began to ebb away.

All adventures ceased when it was time for tea,
or time for bed, but eventually the strength
would flow back into Superman, Robin
would fire an arrow, the cowboy
would climb back onto that trusty armchair

and ride into or out of town. He didn’t really care
if he got the girl or not in those days. That game
would come later. Right now he was intent
on tracking  down the rustlers and being the fastest gun
in the west. Move ‘em out cowboy. Yeehaw!