Fifty miles from Dakota territory Cheyenne scalp hangs from his belt Found him alone washing in the Bighorn a steady aim and he bagged his game
Pale sun falls without contest Here is obedient darkness He will not return
White Cadillac, white man at the wheel, white faces on the mountain, wounds that will never heal Black clouds overhead, old man says looks like rain Thieves' Road winds to the Black Hills sign says South Dakota, U.S.A.
Grass plains stretch to the horizon, not a soul can be found on them They will not return
Old rusted pickup and a mad dog in the yard, purple paint peels but fails to reveal the bitterness that grows inside Cloud of dust in the distance, strange knock beneath my hood Is it better to have words left unsaid than to have words misunderstood?
Pale sun falls without contest Here is obedient darkness It will return I know it will return
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