He was once known simply as sweet, little Jack. But as he grew older, the townsfolk changed that. 

They laughed at his leathers with fringing so black, and poked fun of his favourite wide stetson hat. 

But Jack remained cool, he didn’t need to fight back. He was bigger than them, and I don’t just mean fat.

He was strong and looked fierce, and developed a knack, of keeping tears inside and emotions squashed flat.

But after another, vicious attack, where he suffered enough to make him finally crack.

He ended up fighting, and with an almighty smack, he knocked the man out, with his own baseball bat.

The man wouldn’t move, so Jack got out his sack, and pushed him inside, and threw the sack on his back.

He left town that night, with his beloved cat, and his cat made sure she, packed her favourite rat.

They travelled far through the desert, without looking back, and only stopped for an hour, for the quickest of naps.

Before reaching the mountains that he always stared at, and that’s the last people heard, of old Cactus Jack.

 

Fin.