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Thursday, 12 July 2012


I'm riding shotgun on a stagecoach,
hat brim flat against my head,
rifle nestling in my arms,
wishing it was you instead.

Across the plains from here to there,
desert wind means dusty eyes,
bumps and bruises from the trail,
that's the job, it's no surprise.

I dream of rocking chairs and sunsets,
I'm just a poor old son of a gun,
I need you now, we need our time,
my working days are almost done.

The danger's high, the pay is low,
the land both beautiful and bleak,
I've been attacked, I've shot and killed,
I am as strong as I am weak.

Sunrise, sundown, shadows, shapes, 
trigger ready, eyes sharp and wide,
one more trail for my aching bones
and these shotgun days will subside.

But what is that out in the distance,
fifty, a hundred, it's hard to tell,
me and the driver exchanging glances,
one more trail, the trail to hell.

I'm riding shotgun on a stagecoach,
in this God-forsaken place,
rifle cocked and more than ready,
inside my head, I see your face.

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