Evacuation To The West - aka "No More Kings In Texas" - Bruce Springsteen

    It was on the day the cowboys were abandoned from the ranch
    (It was on the day the cowboys were banned from the range)
    Middle touch world as a master
    (Metal touched the world as a master)
    They rode their ponies down in the cities of gold
    To leave them for ever after
    Now the sun was swollen red and old
    The earth it was windy, dark and cold
    Were the highway ends the desert takes its toll
    Sodusty, red and angry
    It was a time when men died out on the praire
    From not having a decent friend
    At nights the ghosts to the more of riders
    Was a howl in the candid winds

    You can here them crying
    Good God, I think they're dying

    When them rangers down in Dallas
    Had all, but given it up and left
    And those that hang on hoping
    Was trying their best to, to forget
    The way those outlaws and desperadoes
    Right from the cheapest to the best
    Rode in on ponies made of skin and bones
    Keep up their rusty guns and went back home
    (Gave up their rusty guns and went back home)
    And the governor was sent down from Population Control
    And marshall all was past
    (And marshal Law was passed)
    Riverboat gamblers put their money on faith
    For the time for hope they passed

    In the cold blue light of the desert night
    There was a thousand starry ships
    And men came down from still I don't now where
    With death on their fingertips
    Now there's no more kings in Texas
    I swear they rounded up each and everyone
    And old Atlanta Canastoga
    (And oh that line of Conestogas) - covered wagons
    Reached from the Rocky Mountains into the old dead sun
    Now Anna Maria walks the blames alone
    (Now Anna Maria walks the plains alone)
    The last of a struggling people
    She thinks of all those outlaws who wanted to reach for the skies
    And got stuck up on a steamboat
    (And got stuck up on a steeple)
    Oh, you can hear them crying
    Good God, I think they're dying
    In the wind you can hear them sighing


    Marco Giunco
    Work Basket Music Words