It was the sound hoofbeats,
Hoofbeats on the cobbled street
Ringing ever louder
That made the bold Rapaire retreat.

He'd heard the deaths of bandits
Of bandits drawn and quartered
Often glorified in song
And he nearly lost his water.

He put up his sword and pistol
An old pistol, black and long
And he headed for the basement stairs
And dragged his Mom along.

They quarreled down in that basement
The moldy basement, dank and cold
Flinching from those hoofbeats
And feeling frail, and old.

So ends the glorious story
Highwayman's story, rich with lies
Hiding in a dingy basement
From hoofbeats which never quite go by.

A copied Amos post on MOAB