The skin came off the palms in shreds and tatters,
The handles soon became too hot to hold,
Our steeds were losing horseshoes in the gallop,
The foolish bullets threw us from the saddles,
And in our ears there ringed a warning toll.

Blood-thirsty bullets shuttled in a scurry,
Flew back-and-forth as if they lost their wits.
Death stood right here, awaiting for his quarry
And chose the very best - whose turn is it?

Then some of them, who were paroled by fortune,
Were cut in two from shoulder blade to waist,
But Fate held out her helping hands before me
And with a blade of grass would prod my face.

While we were fumbling at the gates to heaven,
The latch was fastened by the lackeys team.
The wicked wind blew off my blush in seconds
And bleached my hair of color on a whim.

Try as you might - the path dies out or widens;
The misty darkness, thickening again,
Throws nooses over the galloping riders
And takes their horses right from under them.