The sun rises,
With the dust.
Which blows across old acres,
Of desert sand.
Sending tumble weeds,
Straight to the oasis ponds.

It's a fragile thing,
This life.
Out here you live by the rules,
Of the man aiming a gun at your head.
It's real rough,
That's for certain.
It'll leave city spirits hurting,
But I'd rather live for the high noon,
Than some old mayor's law.