I dragged my weary horse to your court martial
thirsting for one drop of cactus juice to rejuvenate
our lathered lips and barking skin sick from
carrying cracked carcasses that had been
bouncing behind his withers while
riding through the scrub brush briars
We ride right past her cabin where she tells her
scissor tall tales in her canning pantaloons
Right past the trough of yellow fever dreams and
no whiskey chicken wire fences that beg us in
Onto the Comanche's lawless land in a mirage
that the badge don't matter and over the
Hico no water river west on broke down
mounds of dirt with a barrel full of bad memories
but I can say they ain't never been enough of 'em
to keep a good man and his equine down

Written by Sara Fielder © July 2015