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(Johnny Cash) |
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I am a shotgun rider, |
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For the San Jacinto line, |
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The desert is my brother, |
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My skin is cracked and dry. |
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I was ridin' on a folk coach |
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And everything was fine, |
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Till we took a shorter road |
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To save some time. |
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The bandits only fired once, |
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They shot me in the chest. |
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They may have wounded me but, |
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They'll never get the best |
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Of better men. |
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'Cause I'll ride again. |
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(Waylon Jennings) |
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I am a river gambler, |
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I make a livin' dealin' cards. |
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My clothes are smooth and honest, |
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My heart is cold and hard. |
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I was shufflin' for some delta boys, |
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On a boat for New Orleans, |
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I was the greatest shark they'd ever seen. |
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But the captain bumped a sandbar, |
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And an ace fell from my sleeve. |
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They threw me overboard, |
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As I swore I didn't cheat. |
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But I could swim. |
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And I'll ride again. |
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(All 4:) |
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We are heroes of the homeland, American remains. |
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We live in many faces and answer many names. |
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We will not be forgotten, we won't be left behind. |
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Our memories live on in mortal minds |
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And poets pens. |
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We'll ride again. |
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(Willie Nelson) |
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I am a mid-west farmer, |
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I make a livin' off the land, |
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I ride a John Deere tractor, |
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I'm a liberated man. |
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But the rain it hasn't fallen, |
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Since the middle of July, |
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And if it don't come soon my crops will die. |
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The bank man says he likes me, |
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But there's nothin' he can do. |
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He tells me that he's comin', |
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But the clouds are comin' too. |
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He ain't my friend. |
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And I'll ride again. |
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(Kris Kristofferson) |
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I am an American Indian, |
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My tribe is Cherokee. |
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My forefathers loved this land. |
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They left it here for me. |
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But the white man came with boats, |
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And trains and dirty factories, |
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An' poisened my existence with his deeds. |
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Nature is our mother, |
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We are sucklins at her breast. |
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And he who tries to beat her down, |
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Will lose her to the rest. |
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They'll never win. |
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I'll ride again. |
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(All 4:) |
|
We are heroes of the homeland, American remains. |
|
We live in many faces and answer many names. |
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We will not be forgotten, we won't be left behind. |
|
Our memories live on in mortal minds and poets pens. |
|
We'll ride again. |
