hector mcgurdy

Hector McGurdy sat outside his door
on the porch in the ev’ning’s last light.
He knew, only he, no one else, to be sure,
That this’d be his single, last night.

Hector was 90, he’d lived him a life,
with four wives and seventeen kids.
He’d hustled and stole and lied and contrived
With no conscience for those whom he did.

A killer for hire, a hitman was he,
His holster was notched here to there,
a’counting the victims he’d sent off this land
with a bullet behind neat an ear.

The car would come by at quarter to nine,
from out of the east it would roar,
and the final assignment, the hit would be made
just as Hector had planned them before.

So, what’s to be said ‘about a shooter like he,
when the day’s final reck’ning’s allot?
Just this, if you can, with a smile, if you must,
Hector even did call the last shot.