The Open Prairie, the Western Sky
In an old shack
on a dusty hill
an old man sits
and writes his will
His cracking throat sings
“The day of Bexar”
And he goes outside
Looking wide and far
The corral he built
his livelihood on;
the 7 crosses
by the okra lawn
He closes his eyes
one last time
On the open prairie
Under the Western Sky
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