I want a country western.

I want a country western.
I want the vocal cords of a middle aged cowboy to twang my heart strings.
A pure, chaste girl dressed in white.
An old woman in black, widowed and wise to life.
The smell of smoke, whiskey, and fast tempers.
The villains are easily distinguished by scruffy beards and cowards, pin mustaches.
The heroes are ruggedly beautiful and clean or half shaven.
The horses are all thoroughbred quarter and the whores don red dresses.
Card games are never fair and guns are always fast.
The stars never shadowed by the smog of the city.
The city, in fact, is more of a dusty town.
Boredom is not an option and the good die young.
The trick, it seems, is to be good enough to side with the righteous but black enough to survive.
Beware the brooding stranger, for he will change the world.
I want the orphan, in manly garb to conceal the affliction the world clearly sees as weakness.
She can shoot, eat, and ride like any man but should she be found out will die more horribly than any.
Three men blow in the wind, their heads downcast, bodies stiff as boards.
The sins they hang for are gone from their empty eyes.
I want a country western.