I sit in the field like a broken scarecrow.
Hiding in the tall grass — hard to uproot.
My throat and lungs are a deadly sirocco.

I’ve been on the run since that first salvo.
Guns in my hands and feet in my boots.
I run through the field like a gangling scarecrow.

Now, I’ve run afoul of the outlaw called El’ Diablo.
His bullets fly and a I scamper like a newt.
My lungs and throat breathe a deadly sirocco.

I am quickly running out of ammo.
I pray to God, hoping it’s not moot.
I lay in the field, a bleeding scarecrow.

From somewhere, On High, an angel plays a piano.
My enemy stands above me on the lonely butte.
My throat and lungs gasp in a deadly sirocco.

One last gasp and grasp with all my gusto.
Bang! He dies in his filthy jackboots.

I stand in the field, a broken scarecrow.
My throat and lungs are a deadly sirocco.

My world begin in fire; I was tempered.
I was hammered hard in my youth.
My father was a giant man and my mother a cold, hard anvil.

Sparks flew as I was born.
There was anger between them, which made me burn inside and out.
The quenching was my solace.

My father beamed with pride after my birth.
All I ever wanted to do was please him.
Then he sold me to another and my heart broke.

Soon, I had killed a man and then another.
I became a soldier,
And I knew my purpose in life.

I was kept sharp through the years.
The battles came one after another and my enemies fell.
I was the pride of a nation; held high in victory.

Then, after all the wars were won, it was over.
I was force to retire from the field,
First to a mantle and then to a grave.

My soul withered with rust.
Years became decades, which became centuries.
I was lost to time.

Then, a hound found me and dug me from the earth.
New hands found me in my lonely grave.
They restored me to the light of day.

And they placed me in a Hall of honor.
This is my Fate, but I still long for battle.
I am the Riddle of Steel.