The West has many tales to tell
'bout fortunes found and lost,
man's lust for gold, unbridled greed,
the toll in lives it cost.

From Arizona comes this tale
that Grandpa often told
to all us scamps around a fire
about Old Bannon's gold.

Old Bannon was a stubborn cuss
who chose to seek alone.
His only friend for seven years,
a burro named Bray-zone.

The Superstitious mountain range
he stalked as if possessed.
The Dutchman's long-lost mine he sought,
its site oft wrongly guessed.

He led Bray-zone through mountain crags
where eagles often flew,
arroyos filled with prickly pear,
a land few white men knew.

While plodding through a narrow gorge
along a dry creek bed,
Old Bannon felt the sting of rain.
Black clouds rolled overhead.

Soon lightning sizzled, thunder boomed
off sandstone canyon walls.
The frightened burro raced away
through sudden water falls.

Who will not panic when he hears
that thund'rous flash flood's roar?
Old Bannon scuttled for his life,
now rattled to the core.

The torrent surged and ripped right through
that narrow mountain draw.
It tumbled rocks, uprooted trees
and flung them forth like straw.

An exposed root of cottonwood
is what Old Bannon gripped
before a splintered branch swept by.
Alas! His grasp was stripped.

He fell into the raging tide
which twirled him far downstream.
His ride abruptly ended with
a garbled curse and scream.

The cloud burst chucked him on a shelf
five feet above the flow,
and when his body landed hard,
he felt a crushing blow.

Old Bannon groaned at what he knew
the moment he awoke.
He couldn't move without a curse.
"Well, shucks! My hip is broke!"

Abruptly he lay staring at
the cliff above his head.
He tried to touch what he had seen
while smiling as he bled.

"So there you are, you dazzlin' bitch!
Far richer than we knew.
But cuz the sun don't shine this side
ain't easy seein' you."

Old Bannon's head did tilt a bit
as he began to scoff.
"Jest look who's rich as Midas now,
if I get myself off.

"Yet seems this gent is doomed to die
up here and all alone.
Not feelin' much in these old bones.
Oh, Lord, how's ol' Bray-zone?"

The water's rush was quickly spent,
then silence filled the fold.
Above the slowing creek he lay
now grinning at his gold.

Some say Old Bannon's ghost still guards
that thick rich vein he found.
But should you choose to chase your dream,
keep both feet on the ground.