The Black Hat Speaks
Every Saturday morning you went to the flicks
The cowboy film would come on. You knew me.
You waited for me. I excited you. Admit it.
But you despised me. You saw me as the representative of evil.
You wanted my death. You cheered it on.
Yes, I was the man in the black hat who
Leched (clumsily) for the heroine, bullied the weak
Killed without compunction those who opposed me -
-Or simply annoyed me, and was probably (unnecessarily)
Cruel to my horse, and enjoyed branding my cows’ arses.
And we now know it is primitive stereotyping
To suggest that black means bad; and there might be good
And valid scientific reasons why wearing black
Is a great way of absorbing heat and helping us to
Avoid skin cancer and promote healthy weight loss.
You try it though. Wearing a black hat in the desert sun
Never shaving. Never bathing (only Clint as hero did that)
Drinking nothing but whisky (yes, without paying)
Eating baked beans out of greasy tins, no greens - Jamie please note.
And fated to be killed shortly before the last reel is inserted.
Then, fuck it, to be shot down by a good guy like John Wayne
That All American super brain-dead fascist clunk white hat hero.
What an insult. We had no union though. It was Boot Hill for us.
No wives for us, no meals for us on chequered tablecloths,
Served by the docile blondes that the white hats got.
But at least we had a role then. Boot Hill beats the rest home.
Post-modernity made us redundant. No good/no bad no more.
The white hats are sodomising on Brokeback Mountain.
The black hats are confronting their racism and sexism. Forget it:
I lust to slaughter a blonde sheriff and to fuck her PC daughter.
© Paul Harris 2007 © All rights reserved