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this is your west

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he wears brown boots on his feet

and a bull's eye over his heart

crickets chirp out a love worn

melody to accompany his walking rhythm



he's got no horse

no luggage but the sack slung over his

bending breaking back

he squints his eyes at the red sun and the flat

plain and he grips the

bottle of whiskey

between calloused hands and

the blisters,

god, well, they hurt sometimes but

he's learned to live with them



he'll walk the road to

heaven's gate/

hell's dark dreary hot





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