I used to be a rough one in the days when I was young:
I made my money quickly, and I made it with my gun.
But now I've got a little ranch, a good wife and a son,
And I don't like to talk too much about the things I've done.
But a knock pounds on my door tonight, goes rattling through the room,
I swing it wide and there I see the very face of doom:
A stranger stands all sheathed in dust, eyes wild and intense,
And says, "Strap on your guns, old man, I've come for my
I asked him who he was, he said that he remembered me.
Then I looked at him closer, and I knew who he must be.
Although his face was etched in chisled panes of hate and rage
I think I recalled just where I'd seen that face before.
A weary sigh escaped my chest, but take my guns I did,
Rusty, worn, ten years unused, I'd kept them locked and hid.
And stepped out in the dark and wind to find and face my foe
With feet braced wide and claw-shaped hands like many years ago.
His hands were fast and mine were old, his gun was oiled with
His bullet caught me in the chest, I crashed back through the
I could not see him but I heard him mount his horse and say:
"You killed my father, I killed you." And then he rode away.
Then my son came over to me and he kneeled there by my side,
And I heard him say these words to me before I died:
"Though I'm just a boy right now, I swear as I'm your son,
I'll shoot him down when I'm old enough to use your gun!"