tell 'em to get on their knees.
hey, somebody get that stick on his knees.
they call me old man clanton. i'm what you might call the founder of the feast. now maybe you ain't heard, but we skylark through your dingy little country just about any time we damn well please and big-hat, crummy- lookin' free-holes stumblin' around in the dark ain't allowed. messican po-lice, huh? think you're bad medicine, don't you? hell, i've let stronger stuff run down my leg. so next time we come better step aside. get in our hair again, we'll saw your prods off with butter knives and stuff 'em in your gobs. ain't kiddin' neither. you been told. now git.
ain't that sweet? that's why i stay out here. thank you, god.
what, and i'm supposed to tremble? kiss my ass, messican.