There are no westerns left my love,
the cows died of boredom on the pastures,
Tombstone prospered, it now boast a shopping centre,
and the Indians perished in the reservations.
The cavalry is also gone back home
and what’s left standing is the dream of empire.
The cowboys went to sleep in the shade
leaning on a flesh tree that’s dried out in the meantime,
the sun having forever stopped hitting their eyes.
Across the other side of the border, the Mexicans
drink endless tequilas in the sluggish afternoons,
and enjoy the unemployment as the desert closes in.
In the cemetery, on Geronimo’s old grave,
a diamond-eyed stuffed vulture
advertises what still remains of fear
and on the saloon’s doors the hinges shriek
like the acidic laughter of a witch.
The sheriff swapped his badge for two dollars
the rancher’s daughter opened a karaoke bar
the dancing girls enlisted in the air force
the gambler set up a casino in Reno, Nevada.
What then do you come looking for, Clint Eastwood,
guns jammed, barrels rusted,
your knife-chiselled features, your hateful eyes,
your slanting sneaking look of an ill-loved kid?
There are no westerns left. And on the vast prairies
the winds of progress reek of gadgets and popcorn.