Racing through the canyon,
gaining speed at every turn,
two outlaws and companions,
never again will they return
to a little town called Seco,
tucked away within the hills,
a little place to get low,
tucked away from hidden thrills.
Dead Man’s Creek once filled with cries,
now the river bed runs dry.
Vultures deeply flood the skies,
Whiskey Joe rolled his snake eyes.
Said we made it to Arroyo,
good place to drown your sorrows.
His left pocket held a photo,
forever livin’ in his morrows.
The vortex in the valley,
out in the sun in Cali.
In a land that feels free,
though it’s stolen country.
The devil’s talkin’ in your dreams,
blood line red wine controls.
If you try hard you can leave,
before they seize your soul.
