The hills are filled with ghosts
Those long dead and gone
From the dead Confederates
To Apache strong

A past that's cruel and often used
To get what it wants
Leaving in its wake the open graves
Of Fathers and their Sons

Shame done in high cotton
Holding tight the Devils hand
The dead may be forgotten
But not the sin of man

Where every Cain is Able
To lash out in hate
The blood from our brothers
Cries out from beyond the grave

As from the beginning
Until the end of time
Those long dead and gone
Are ghosts on the hillside