Look under his floorboards, Mama, I don't trust his silly grin He's got a beat-up Rambler, Nebraska plates, And I ain't getting in I don't like the way
Emma's in a part of town Where she doesn't recognize the streets Named for famous native sons And out of every crevice comes creeping A threat in her
If it ain't one thing I tell you it's always another I wonder why I started treating you like a step-brother Love is hard to explain I know my loss
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
Haven't seen the sun for seven days November's got her nails dug in deep Haven't seen my son for seven years And the chances are we'll never again meet
Reach a hand to the crescent moon Grab hold of the hollow If she sits in the palm of the left That moon will be fuller tomorrow If she sits in the palm
on the front porch step And the air smells like snow She's thinking of the siege to come And how she'll miss those weekends In the park with the sun
Eyed it, dried it, untied it Chilled it, spilled it, refilled it Taste it, traced it, erased it He's my post to lean on And I just cut him down So I
Raise a white sail if you love me A black sail if you don't Seal me up in an impregnable tower Or surround me with an impassable moat I've heard all
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