Each time Pop Opportunity passed,
You’d see some delinquent scout
Blink, then swear, then freak out fast,
While Poppa, he tuned it out;
But then old Pop, right out of the blue,
Was felled by a falling branch
(There’s some declare it was half sawn-through),
And his Widow now rules the Ranch.
So it’s her eye now you want to catch,
As you see her cantering by;
They say she’s more than the Old Man’s match,
And they don’t need to spell out why.
No immunity, no impunity,
Blink and she won’t be there:
The Widow Opportunity,
With her flaming-pitch-black hair.
The Sheriff watches the Widow
With a reverent kind of fear:
She likes to call him “kiddo”,
And make him run like a steer,
But she’ll smile at the Sunday school teacher,
Or the drunk in the French saloon;
For we’ve all got a chance to reach her,
Provided we’re opportune.
Never doubt she can pull a pal up,
Be he Texan or Japanese;
She’s the kind of gal who can gallop
With a Shogun across her knees;
But you’re not going to stop her with kisses
Or whatever you’re counting on:
She’s Opportunity’s Missus,
And when she’s gone, she’s gone.