The man in a red cloak and his leather boots,

From a poor family began his forsaken roots,

Pistol on hip and rifle slung across his back,

A knife in his belt, there’s no weapon he lacks,

Pressed his heels into his horse, forwards, forwards!

Across the plain of sand and dust the horseshoes fly,

Cloak a billow, not afraid to concoct a lie,

Running from the gallows, fearing his life he did,

As he went, of incriminating items himself he rid,

Flicked the reins of his horse, forwards, forwards!

The sheriff and his men, however, had faster horses by much,

And it did not look good for the bandit, as such,

Seeing this, he wheeled his horse around and charged,

His pistol in his hand fired twice, smoke from the barrel,

The men drew their Winchesters, now he was in peril,

One more step forward, the horse collapse, and the man dies, tumble to the ground, a true shot kill him.