Email Poem

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Personal Note:

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Poem

There's a fine line between fortune and fame 
I was riding with the Devil till my horse went lame 
I was all alone till loneliness came 
The Count of Monte Cristo must have felt the same 
Now I walk the dry lands of Mariposa 
In the sun-scorched state of California 
Was riding with a group that was supposed to 
Raise the dollar amount on my wanted poster 
We were moving with a man they called P.O.8
Relieving stagecoaches of unnecessary weight 
A poem would be left just to leave them irate 
A gentleman Bandit forges his own fate  
W.H. Taylor was a formidable man 
He was riding driver's box with a shotgun in his hand 
Mama was grit and Papa sand 
Taylor shot my horse and my face hit land

And Roll, Roll
Stagecoach roll 
Wouldn't bother you 
If you weren't carrying gold 
Now Roll, Roll 
Stagecoach roll 
I just want to know 
What your front boot hold

When I woke I thought I was dead 
Sandy little spot I done soaked it red 
Picked myself up on my own accord 
I felt like a man that fell on his own sword 
All I saw was red as my anger it poured 
As I pictured my possie counting out their reward  
Now it's time to find out what becomes of me 
Walking across the desert at a boiling degree 
I can hear my mama now saying nothing's free 
When I got caught for the Cherry Creek robbery 
Now I think as I walk to my desert grave 
The next time around I might behave 
But this Highwayman Soul can never be saved 
Because what's in the Wells Fargo box is what I crave

And Roll, Roll
Stagecoach roll 
Wouldn't bother you 
If you weren't carrying gold 
Now Roll, Roll 
Stagecoach roll 
I just want to know 
What your front boot hold

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