Wouldn'T Bother You If You Weren'T Carrying Gold
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
Copyright © Plant A Tree Poetry | Year Posted 2019
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