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"My Old .45"

Wake up and listen to what you say
A hat pin, a whistle, a small can of spray.
This assaulter weighs 250, he's dominant and mean
Do you really think from the above, he'll flee from the scene?

It's not the macho thing to do, it's not in his mindset
To let this fragile victim scare him, can you picture it yet?
The wind is gusting, it swirls the spray.
It incapacitates you, and makes his day.

Your "cop in a can", your whistle or pin
At most, may only elicit a grin.
This brutal attacker has only one goal
With no remorse and no conscience, he knows his role.

It's played out completely, on his own terms
The terror, the panic, as his victim cowers and squirms.
I wish that all the above wasn't true
But it's honestly stated, to maybe help you.

The horse is already out of the barn.
The criminals have guns, they perpetrate harm.
We aren't asking that everyone carry a gun
'Cause carrying one around, really isn't "fun".

But wake up and admit that the above may be true
And allow someone like me to be there for you.
You see, for you and me to remain alive
Your whistle won't cut it, not like my old .45.

These attackers are cowards, and have often run
When merely confronted with another person's gun.
The Bible says the meek shall inherit the earth,
We know it's true for whatever that's worth.

When help is needed from a brutal, battering attack
Where great bodily harm, or death is a definite fact
This attacker can leave, he can run, and survive
But attack me, and he'll meet my old .45.

A permit to carry, to protect me or someone.
It may be you, your daughter or son.
I'm afraid your whistle won't make him run
Not as sure as I am if I pull out a gun.

Please understand, I never want to hear
A battered, dying victim, whisper in my ear
"Why didn't you help me, I'm barely alive
I just wished you had carried your old .45."

I'm an American citizen, I don't always want to carry a gun
When I do though, my friend, it's a comfort though not fun.
The Police and Sheriff, can't always be there
When a victim cries out, they don't always know from where.

Statistics prove it almost every day
In spite of all the half truths, you say
You see, the criminal has no need of any permit
They scoff at the law, and they'll never quit.

Of course they'll return another day
And attack another, in a similar way.
When nobody tries to help this innocent one
You can bet that not a one of them, had her own gun.

I'll tell you now, my questioning friend
I'll carry my gun, and try not to offend.
Only to protect me, and all the innocent ones
And even you and yours, as you protest my guns.

With the right to carry as some states rights
There haven't been any of those Wild West fights.
So put away your scare tactics, develop some common sense
Our cry to protect others and ourselves, is surely no pretense.

I agree with you, my doubting friend
For all to live in peace, would be a perfect end.
To protect and save others, or even just to survive
I'm asking to lawfully carry - my old .45.

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"My Old .45"

One of the emotional highlights of the 1996 Gunowners Rally in the Missouri capital rotunda in Jefferson City was the reading of this poem by its author Lon R. Anderson.