Westward, moving on
Someone along a long dusty road
Following a long lost dream
I hear of a time when cowboys
rode off into the sunset alone.
Small town saloon and such
no one cared too much when you came or went.

And we can be like hobos my friends
riding this boxcar to see where the train goes.
We can be travelling specters on this highway
like the cowboys yesterday.
We can walk the roads like legends . . .
we can play the role of martyrs
or we can do nothing at all
remember the past.

Eastward moving back
I don't know any cowboys or hobos
And I have no cause to be a martyr for
But I am not sure that I would
Wanted to be at home on the range
Living through the American Mythos
And become a myth myself.