Tombstone

Whistle does the lone desert winds, flowing downwards from Boot hill cemetery, in icy chilling breeze full of echoing voices, From the past, begging for redemptions last chance of salvation. Roll does the crimson tumbleweed, towards the ghost town known as Tombstone, a monuments graveyard to the old west. In this rock cactus garden of venomous vipers, did the righteous Live, amongst the uncivilized lawless, in this wildness country, Of the unbridled frontier. Blinded by greed's lightning flash, for quick money and easy cash, Did the earth expose evil's shining metal, silver, from deep within, Accursed is this place, purgatory's hell on earth, its deadly soil marred And sanctified in blood sacrifice. Left to the scorpions and rattlesnakes, as the only living inhabitants, Ramshackle buildings remain, abandonment’s delinquent tribute To a once thriving community. But after night fall, others come forth, crossing the threshold of the Nether underworld, the gun slinger, the gambler, and ladies of Reputation's ill repute, claim this desert real estate for their own Dark amusement park, still whooping it up at the bird cage theatre, Indulging themselves. In all manor of seductions insidious erotic acts Of depravity. The condemned soulless walk these dusty sandy streets of limbo, Forever banished are these bastered son's of the gun. Or until the last Shot is fired at the O.K. Corral, on high noon's final sunrise. Satan is the lawful sheriff here, in this the territory of the forsaken, And his loyal deputy the Grim Reaper controls the posses of the undead. Riding against the redden moon, seeking any innocent soul trying To escape from this desert prison. You've drawn the dead man's hand my friend, if you find yourself lost here, For the condemned show no mercy's reprieve to outsiders, the screaming Souls shout from above, run lone cowboy run, and don't look back, For the devils possess rides behind thee, and the dark lord, Takes no prisoner's alive. Whistle do the lone desert winds, flowing downwards from Boot hill cemetery, in icy chilling breeze full of echoing voices, From the past, begging for redemptions last chance of salvation. But light concurs darkness, and death's icy grip fades at the First rays of sunrise, and all evil must return to their crypts Beneath the earth, from the dust from when'est they came, Until the next moon's rising, then wide will the gates of hell, Swing again, releasing the germinate residences of a city, Named Tomb Stone. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN