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 revenge." 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 and more, 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 hate. His bullet caught me in the chest, I crashed back through the gate. 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!"
