Gundown
The haze did a dance before the saloon
in the ghost town of my dreams;
the batwing doors swung a nervous creak,
rusted hinges, muted screams.
A high noon clock with a warping hand
failed to count the seconds pass,
and the whole world froze in a fiery frieze
like dust in a whisky glass.
Tumbleweed bowled along the street
where the blood of ages dried;
and the hot tongue of the firebrand breeze
licked the bones of that which died.
My tears they fell and turned to ash
as they struck the shifting sand,
with my dying wishes planted deep
in the dirt of a barren land.
Prayers from the barrel of an old six gun
fired on the distant plain,
into the sky in the blink of an eye
to never be heard again.
Gundown my hopes and all my faith
in a random hail of lead,
a forty-five calibre massacre
that left my love for dead.
Gundown the future and the world
with an aim so straight and true;
only leave just a hole in the dark of my soul
where the light may again shine through...
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