Death! And no escape.
See, the Crimson Rider - alone in the silver screen expanse.
A teeming bedlam of dust and thunder follows in his wake.
With all the resolve of hell burning in his eyes, the bastard hero traverses the plains.
Saddled with avarice and cruelty he rides - the key to a nation fixed to his belt.
A hero? A man. A mouthful of blood.
Perennial, a loaded gun.
A law of the land cares not for lawless men.
A skyline of gravestones stands tall come the dawn
The frontier eternal, beholden to none.
The rider who would deal death, has drafted his own.
The sun drawing nearer, The rider pushed on.
In a fervor of gold, the outlaw becomes a God.
See our hero, realize too late:
He was blind to the gallows, yet tied his own rope.
As the platform falls from his feet, His last breath proclaims:
I am iron, I am death. I am the setting sun. I am the West.
They’ll sing his song - of an era gone
Hero hero, to which sunset will you ride?
When the bleeding clouds leave no horizon?
The gallows, no road back?
