THE RUNNING MAN

A POEM BY JOE PONCHO

 

They call me a Missouri guerilla

A desperate and lonely man

I live by the law of the six gun

And lay my head where I can

 

I've taken money from the railroad

And done my share of killin'

Rode with Quantrill’s boy's

In all of that I was willin'

 

But now I’m a running man

I have no where to hide

The law dogs are after me

Oh, God - must I forever ride?

 

I need to rest my weary bones

I'm tired of this way of life

I don't reckon I can take much more

It's all too much trouble and strife

  

I suppose I could surrender

And take the oath with hand on heart

I could hand in my six guns

But it would tear my guts apart

 

For I was born a bushwhacker

Born to be bold, free and ride

So i guess I’ll never be able to settle down

Oh, curse this foolish pride!

 

If only I could see again

My old Clay County farm

And grow tobacco in fields well kept

And lay away my arms

 

Well, folks now I reckon I am done

And bid you all farewell

Who knows if we will meet again

On this hot, dusty road to hell?

 

COPYRIGHT JOE PONCHO 2009