Death of The Lone Ranger

By Allan Roy Andrews

He galloped to an era unmasking
foibles in electronic heroes and
tarnishing spangles with slick songs.

His tacky mask, a harlequin’s ploy,
coyly hid his love-need; he misplaced
his loins on a pale Arabian stallion.

His magnanimity with silver bullets,
squandering precious metal,
sullied his ride into radio’s West.

Beside him, Tonto:  A little lower than
the Ranger; a sidekick, a faithful companion,
a bit of a bloodhound, but not a brother.

I query my mirror of age:  “Who is he,
this masked stranger?”  It ciphers my years
and replies:  “He died in this decade.”

A finale.  Rossini’s “Overture”
succumbs to synthesizers, and I must
conquer desperadoes without him.


*This is a slightly revised version of a poem I posted online at
The American Reporter []
in a column I wrote dated Dec. 30, 1999.

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