He staggers, so, slow down a lonesome road
- in El Dorado: the only home he'd ever known.
He attempts to grasp some truth, alone, in the street
- but winds up hearing, only, his rambling feet
- and those coyotes who'll cry t'ward the sky,
- t'wards that waning moon: resting, oh, so high.
Letting out a sigh, he cannot comprehend why
- all o' these citizens, ever, so faithfully comply
- to thee system o' people who're, oh, so sly
- an' would love to see us all bleed out an' die
- if it gets them a new sports car or a blue silk tie.
Tis' a kind o' world to make people lay down an' cry.