Two black clouds hang high in the sky, 
overhead where I stand and to where my horse will ride. 
Hoofbeats solemn and low, while the wing howls of coming cold. 
I'm a walking dead man in chains, I'm a number not a name. 
They caught me running Southwest where the lands are still wild and free. 
I was young and dumb and had a gun, but I swear he fired first at me. 
So now low my head hangs and dark are my coming days. 
I'm a walking dead man in chains, I'm a number not a name.