The Lone Ranger wore a mask because he had no eyes;
cellophane kept the flies out,
prevented further maggot-scribes
from scrawling on dead flesh,
kept Tonto’s teeth from gnawing on the prize.
The Lone Ranger rode the West where no one knew his name;
the East had used him roughly,
recognized his tight-pants fetish
and phallic horsey ride,
kept telling Tonto “Read between the lines…”
The Lone Ranger liked to sleep out underneath the stars;
most ceilings had small faces
and the mattress mocked his tossing.
His pillow hid the creep
of Tonto’s leather soles and scabbard-sighs.
The Lone Ranger died a long, long time ago;
some say he choked on cornpone,
others say he was retired.
His steed fed freeway buzzards;
Tonto hobbled it in case the dead should rise.