Going Home

Let him go; he's going home.
He was a foolish man to roam
   So far afield in search of game;
   In mining towns the sport is tame.
In that fair city, full of grace
A lethal weapon's out of place
   Yonder this quarry should be found
         He's homeward bound.

He's going home.  Stay not his feet.
Who knows what fortune he may meet
   In his home city of the south
   Where soon No-Licence threatens drouth --
The drouth that breeds, in course of time,
Its grim concomitants of crime.
   Here's sport indeed.  Why should he roam?
         He's going home.