bullets fly and cannons crash and I feel they all point at me,
and I swear by God I'll shoot a man whoever that might be,
and I see a man wave his hands and he don't look like me,
so I aim my gun close to his heart as it could possibly be...
the man I thought I shot was just a boy of only fifteen...

and I can't save myself for what I've done,
but I will do all that I must to save you my son,
your broken, burned body has no reception in my trench,
but there is hope across the bridge that burns with human stench...
the boy's colors will save him there but mine will surely get me killed...

the driver rides on madly to the bridge of which I speak,
in a stagecoach that belonged to a man he killed in his sleep,
and you'd think the broken boy I hold were the thief's the way he drives,
but only 'cause I gave him half the gold and rest when we arrive...
and you might think this a rarity but it's the only kind of life I see...

at last we arrive at the bridge and the flames are calling me,
and the stagecoach that we drove to town a burning chariot be,
and we reach the gate on the other side the thief now is dead,
from a beam that fell down from the bridge and tore through his head,
and I run through and over flames the boy draped in my arms,
and I can feel their panic ring out over their alarms,
and the boy is taken quickly and is rushed in to care,
and by the break of dawn I'm to be hung in the square...
do your worst I will laugh at you and send me back to the flames...

now the hangman's calling me...
and from the gallows I can see...
boy reaching out and weeping free...
the only tears that fall for me...
then the trap door falls and I...
close my eyes and softly die...
the lights around me growing dim...
wish I had more to leave to him...
the virtue in our lives will lie...
on lips of poets when we die...

let teardrops cool this land...
take brothers's, take sisters' hand,
let teardrops cool this land...
let teardrops cool this land...