| Weak from travelling tired and thirsty
|
| He’s been two years on the road.
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| In pursuit of one who left him
|
| And the man with whom she rode.
|
| In his bag lies a revolver
|
| In his eyes there’s only hate.
|
| And he’s angered to discover
|
| Once again he’s arrived too late.
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| On… on… and on he’ll be gone, in the morning
|
| On till it’s gone, all the reason for his mourning.
|
| It was evening Late December,
|
| When he finally, he tracked them down.
|
| In a cold flat they surrendered
|
| Within moments two shots rang out.
|
| Now his searching has been ended
|
| And his reason for living too.
|
| As the year closed that December,
|
| It claimed his life and his soul too. |