Some people called him Ray Gunslinger,
And he was kind of cool with that.
He wore a white hat, and steam punk shades,
Carried a weapon that crossed a sonic screwdriver with a badly used lightsaber,
Scared the crap out of everyone he met out there in the wide cosmos.
Space Cowboy also carried a six charge ray gun on his hip,
Modeled after an old Earth Colt revolver and holstered in antique leather.
He was faster than light beamed at a black hole with either,
So don’t mess with the kid.
A guy in a Tardis picked him up out of his back yard,
One crazy Summer day when Ray was ten.
He had some crazy adventures,
Learned all about galaxy-conquering deathbots and how to un-bolt them,
Then escaped the Time Lord of gibbery goodness in a crazy Tardis junkyard.
Ray was a mechanical man,
Even though he was made of flesh and bone.
He cobbled and he cribbed,
Tinkered and jiggered,
And danced off into the galaxy rise,
Proud owner of a fully-functional but butt-ugly time and space displacer,
Which looked for all the universe like a flying garage.
He was great about fixing stuff,
Be it evil or old junk,
But he was better at telling a story.
His yarn didn’t come off a spindle,
No siree, Earthlings,
Space Cowboy’s yarn came from his lips,
But it was so fantastic,
It was hard to figure he could’ve made it up.
If there was an evil critter out among the stars,
Ray would just as soon talk ’em into the Ever-After as shoot a blaster at their behind.
His only regret?
That cobbled-up replicator was only good for beach towels,
Beans and Starbucks coffee.
The cool part?
His go-lever in the Tardis made a sound like “yippee kiyay!” every time he took off.
By: Daniel A. Stafford