"December 12, 1884: George Cooke"Laramie, Wyoming

Click here to listen to Jill McDonough read this poem.


He drank all night and then all day, and fought
his brother-in-law in the street. He killed him. The one
who saw the murder said after he fired the shot
and James Blunt fell, Cooke looked a little stunned
and walked around to address the torn, burnt head:
Son of a bitch: I've killed you, have I? His defense
was simple: not responsible, they said,
by reason of being crazy drunk. No chance.

On the scaffold, his gait and voice were firm and clear:
It was at once evident to all that Cook
meant to die game. Reporters saw not fear,
but wonderful courage. The next day, readers could look
at the front page of the Laramie Boomerang
to see Cooke face this headline: HE DIED GAME.

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