In
the southern part of Texas,
east and west of El Paso,
where the mighty Franklin Mountains guard the trail to Mexico,
there's a new-made way to cry and a hearse a-rollin' slow,
and I guess that devil's passed this way again.
There's a lathered sorrel stallion runnin' through the Joshua trees,
and a young man in the saddle with his coattails in the breeze.
He's got a six-gun on his right hip and a rifle at his knee,
and he's dealin' in a game that he can't win.
Oh, Billy Bonny, you're only twenty-one,
that Garrett's got your name on every bullet in his gun.
Each notch you carved on your six-gun's got a bloody tale to tell,
but you're a mile ahead
of Garrett and a step outside of hell.
Them fancy clothes you're wearin' and the
women in your bed can't take away the faces
of the men that you left dead.
As you ride across the badlands with a price upon your head,
now that wheel of fortune
starts to turn.
Your reputation's grown till it's the biggest in the land,
and there ain't
a lot of people left who'd wanna call your hand.
And I guess you'll go down shootin'
and like all branded men,
when you shake hands with the devil,
you get burned.
Oh, Billy
Bonny, you're only twenty-one,
that Garrett's got your name on every bullet in his gun.
Each notch you carved on your six-gun's got a bloody tale to tell,
but you're a mile ahead of Garrett and a step outside of hell.