Our vigilante lives in his shanty, sipping chianti
Or a snifter of brandy, as he flips through Cervantes
His pistol handy, it’s a dandy, and he’s sound on the draw
If you dare provoke a man that isn’t bound by the law
Counseled by God, dispatching of rustlers and thuggish creeps
Then rides away on his trusty steed amongst the tumbleweeds
Our vigilante once had a family, once a wife and a son
Whom he raised on a plot of land he had rightfully won
His tragedy came by banditry, at once swift but still wrathful
They killed his kin and his cattle, left him adrift and in shambles
Now he roams the restless ‘Handle, he won’t rest til they’re dead
As he paints the West in red, in search of Texas revenge
For those who crushed the gunsmith, their punishment cometh
Torn asunder in the rumble of his thundering bullets
See, his pistol is sinful, a fistful of artisanal nickel
Ever-fitful, his foes left dismal in their swiftest dismissal
Bitterness never fizzles, his heart steeled by their evils
A man once calm and pious now unwieldy and lethal
There’s no bravado in our desperado as he sips amontillado
He drowns his sorrows, hollow with the thought of tomorrow
His righteousness derelict, the Western air is but perilous
Our vigilante, his love unheralded…
but his gun barrel is
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