A MAN AND THE DESERT

A man,
Making a run,
Tryin' to escape,
Across the barren wasteland.

Crossin' through,
The forbidding desert.
Chased by a group of men.

The dead corpse,
Of his trusty horse,
That he left behind,
Many-a-days,
Nights,
An' miles ago.

Along with,
The sweet,
Water of life,
That is so very scarce,
Now that his canteen,
Is gettin' low.

The Sun's heat,
Beating,
Unmercifully,
Down on him.

An' the cold,
Night winds,
Chilling,
To the very,
Bone of him.

Trodding on,
An' over,
Sand dunes.
And through,
The sagebrush.


Plodding on,
An' on.
Pushing himself,
Much too much.

Livin' off,
The land.
An' survivin' on,
The power,
Of his will.

Eating the meat,
Of snakes,
An' rabbits,
That he's lucky enough,
To kill.

On the dust,
Of the desert sands,
He does choke on.

With all his strength,
Nearly gone,
An' his body,
Nearly broken.

His clothes,
All dirty,
Worn,
Torn,
And tattered.

His spirit,
An' mind.
Almost totally,
Shattered.

His skin,
Baked,
Hard an' dry as,
Burnt,
An' boiled,
Leather.

Walkin' for days,
Without a sign,
Of any changes,
In the weather.



The closer the vengeful,
An' relentless,
Outlaws get.

The more,
Hot lead,
An' the desert,
Are an even bet.

But the closer,
The man gets,
To the mountains,
Or the plain..

The better chance,
He does have,
Of making,
Great gains.

The faster he moves,
The more the tail,
On his trail,
He might loose.

An' then,
Maybe,
His neck,
He may save,
From the hangman's noose.

An' now,
In the cold,
Of the morning,
On the dawning,
Of the seventh day.
The Sun breaks over,
The horizon.

The man looks up,
An' there,
He can see,
Not too far away.
Distant,
Grass covered plains,
An' the tip,
Of a mountain.

He's so close,
He can taste it.
He's almost there.
He's almost free.

In no more,
Than a day,
Or two.
That's where,
He could be.

His body,
So tired,
But his spirit is strong.

An' so now,
With a purpose,
He keeps moving along.