by Michael Timmins

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Fifty miles from Dakota territory

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Cheyenne scalp hangs from his belt

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Found him alone washing in the Bighorn

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a steady aim and he bagged his game


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Pale sun falls without contest

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Here is obedient darkness

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He will not return


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White Cadillac, white man at the wheel,

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white faces on the mountain, wounds that will never heal

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Black clouds overhead, old man says looks like rain

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Thieves' Road winds to the Black Hills sign says South Dakota, U.S.A.


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Grass plains stretch to the horizon,

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not a soul can be found on them

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They will not return

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Bb5 C5   C5 Bb5 A5 A5 A5   Bb5 A5 A5

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Old rusted pickup and a mad dog in the yard,

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purple paint peels but fails to reveal the bitterness that grows inside

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Cloud of dust in the distance, strange knock beneath my hood

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Is it better to have words left unsaid than to have words misunderstood?


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Pale sun falls without contest

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Here is obedient darkness

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It will return

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I know it will return

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It will return.