The last American cowboy rode into town,
walking into the nearest swinging door he orders a drink,
then asking the bartender, softly, in the voice
of a long ago gunslinger,
this America you speak of, what has happened
to her soul, for let me tell you what's out there,
as you pour me another whiskey.
I saw homeless people outside of town,
begging me for a dime,
children lost, their Mother's grief, unbroken.
Momma ain't here, she gone for good,
victim not of a bullet or ambush,
but the silent scorn of the rich and powerful,
who watch her die from their fancy stage couches,
whose hand is destiny playing?
this cowboy, a handsome and dust filled man,
asks the stranger standing next to him,
there are mother crying down the streets,
their only sons lost in battle,
does this go down across the land,
who is this man called President,
where did he get his arrogant side,
did he fight in battle,
or show compassion to a mother's heart?
everybody in this lonesome bar room
gave the cowboy one big laugh,
American has gone to ground they say,
she doesn't give a hoot about the fallen,
or the homeless child,
they rather be right than happy,
Mr. President is an anxious fraud,
for his mission is clear,
his soul belongs to the devil,
he will take all those who follow
him straight to the darker side,
he wants those who disagree with him,
sent off to Potter's field,
our cowboy finishes his third straight up bourbon
hold the ice, if you please,
Where are you going stranger,
the bartender asks,
this is a place I can't call home,
a state of mind that sours the soul,
I ride off into the sunset,
giving the homeless child my coin,
I won't come back again, you see,
until the sitting sun,
and when I do, you folks can rest assured,
I'll have the book of life with me,
and your president will have to answer,
for each tear shed in his name, for each heart broken,
and those that let me ride by without stopping,
are doomed to a bitter place
called America,
once heaven, but now merely home.
