Hawking wares from a flea-bitten mare
Whose mangy mouth was dappled in white and gold
Outfit with relics and rare tropical sea oils
Peddling every kind of cure from death to boils
Riding low into town, saddle trussed in black lights
Spinning saint medallions from his holsters, ready for a fight
Trigger finger itching on a vial of holy debris
Con as many as he can before it's time to flee