Fifty miles from Dakota territory

Cheyenne scalp hangs from his belt

Found him alone washing in the Bighorn

a steady aim and he bagged his game



Pale sun falls without contest

Here is obedient darkness

He will not return



White Cadillac, white man at the wheel,

white faces on the mountain,

wounds that will never heal

Black clouds overhead, old man says

looks like rain

Thieves' Road winds to the Black Hills sign

says South Dakota, U.S.A.



Grass plains stretch to the horizon,

not a soul can be found on them

They will not return



Old rusted pickup and a mad dog in the yard,

purple paint peels but fails to reveal

the bitterness that grows inside

Cloud of dust in the distance,

strange knock beneath my hood

Is it better to have words left unsaid

than to have words misunderstood?



Pale sun falls without contest

Here is obedient darkness

It will return

I know it will return

It will return