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The pale moon hangs low in a silver-flecked night sky

Like a poor beggar sent to the gallow tree

Casting a bleak glance of envy upon the freedom in my soul

I am the lone wolf

Straddling death, i ride

Cutting through the cool desert air

There may be blood on my hands

But there is peace in my mind

I am a loathsome creature

Born and set upon the open road

A sinful creature

Whose memory of the whipping belt reminds him of home

The road is endless and often cruel

But fire and violence is a willful muse

One more ounce of whiskey downed

She urges me toward the distant hills