| A mother dies leaving her young son
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| To come to terms with the loss
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| In remembrance of Fiona Chappel
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| For her sons Tyler and Oliver
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| I was barely 13 years old
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| She came out of the Guadalupe’s on a night so cold
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| Her coat was frosted diamonds in the sallow moon’s glow
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| My silver palomino
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| Sixteen hands from her withers to the ground
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| I lie in bed and listen to the sound
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| Of the west Texas thunder roll
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| My silver palomino
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| I track her into the mountains she loved
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| Watch her from the rocks above
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| She’d dip her neck and drink from the winter flows
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| My silver palomino
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| Our mustaneros were the very best, sir
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| But they could never lay a rope on her
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| No corral will ever hold
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| The silver palomino
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| In my dreams bareback I ride
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| Over the pradera low and wide
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| As the wind sweeps out the draw
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| Across the scrub desert floor
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| I’d give my riata and spurs
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| If I could be forever yours
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| I’d ride into the serrania where no one goes
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| For my silver palomino
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| Summer drought come hard that year
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| Our herd grazed the land so bare
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| Me and my dad had to blowtorch the thorns off the prickly pear
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| And mother, your hand slipped from my hair
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| Tonight I wake early the sky is pearl, the stars aglow
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| I saddle up my red roan
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| I ride deep into the mountains along a ridge of pale stone
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| Where the air is still with the coming snow
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| As I rise higher I can smell your hair
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| The scent of your skin, mother, fills the air
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| Midst the harsh scrub pine that grows
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| I watch the silver palomino |