I was sittin in The Thirsty Devil, one sheet hung to the wind

when the bat wings doors creaked open and a stranger sauntered in

he moved his head from side to side and glared with a sunken eye

I heard the spin of a rusty spur as he shook off the dreary night

he lowered his hat, checked his gun and headed toward the bar

walked on up beside me, I knew he’d traveled far

in a voice as thick as mud he looked to the ‘keep and said…

“one shot of whiskey for myself and one for my new friend”

the patrons whispered hushed and low, they seemed to be afraid

as if a ghost had stood right up and walked out of its grave

his face was shallow and dirty, his skin like leather hide

sure he spoke like any man, but something wasn’t right

so I twisted on my stool, turned to him and said

“thank you sir, but just the same, I’m chasin worms instead”

he growled and shoved the drink my way, his eyes cold as death

“I pick the drinks, you knock ‘em back, else draw against my hand”

chorus:

when it’s six to midnight and the boney hand of death is nigh

you better drink your drink and shut your mouth

if you draw against his hand, you can never win

go ahead… drink with the living dead

“who the hell do you think you are?” my patience growin thin

but swallow hard, I had to do, when the story he began

his lips curled back and words came forth starting up the tale

and every face inside that bar turned a shade of pale

“my name is Stanton Cree and I died three years before

I shot a man to steal his drink, at least that’s what they hung me for

now I’m cursed to walk the earth and challenge every night

a man to match me drink for drink or by the bullet die”

“now wait a minute, mister, no one makes me a fool”

I pushed the shot of whiskey back on over towards the ghoul

“I love a drink like any man but that’s a losin game

to drink or draw against the dead would only be insane”

Stanton Cree tipped his hat and laughed a wicked laugh

“you see, the lord cursed my soul for killin that poor man

there ain’t no choice so you must try to match me shot for shot

if you win, then you’ll go free and I can finally rot”

the barhop nodded slowly and I knew that I was screwed

if I chose to duel the dead then I would surely lose

so I took the glass and threw the shot into my throat

I would match him drink for drink, no matter if I choked

whiskey, tequila, vodka, rum or gin

ain’t no man that I can’t beat, be him live or dead

so into the morning I matched him ounce for ounce

til Stanton Cree fell over and a winner was announced

now he rests in his pine box and I still walk the streets

but I don’t forget the night when death had chosen me

there ain’t no fancy moral to go with this I fear

unless you aim to kill a man and drink down his last beer!