Intrepid, a boy strode down the mountain path,
Into nature's unchanging wrath;
The dust stirred at his feet,
The sun kissed his back, fiery heat;
He thought of the bloodbath.

They'd told him to run,
And he did, under the heat of sun.
Now, he'd slowed to a crawl,
Heading away from the desert brawl;
On his waist, he still had his gun.

He came to a stop,
Sat on a rock,
Ran his fingers through his hair-mop.

He should have known not to settle,
It always took a toll.