Fifty miles from Dakota territory
Cheyenne scalp hangs from his belt.
Found him alone washing in the Bighorn
a steady aim and he bagged his game.
Pale sun falls without contest.
Here is obedient darkness. He will not return.
White Cadillac, white man at the wheel,
white faces on the mountain,
wounds that will never heal.
Black clouds overhead, old man says
looks like rain.
Thieves' Road winds to the Black Hills sign
says South Dakota, U.S.A.
Grass plains stretch to the horizon,
not a soul can be found on them.
They will not return.
Old rusted pickup and a mad dog in the yard,
purple paint peels but fails to reveal
the bitterness that grows inside.
Cloud of dust in the distance,
strange knock beneath my hood.
Is it better to have words left unsaid than to
have words misunderstood?
Pale sun falls without contest.
Here is obedient darkness. It will return.
I know it will return. It will return.
© 2024 Cloverlyrics.com