dust laden boots
speak the saga untold
boots on the run
they see the rising sun
everyday in lands unknown
crossing unkempt pathways
never meant for treading
boots on the run
trampling the dead man's land
and his garden of hope
passing by the caravans
stopping by the silent towns
boots on the run
lie lazy on the table
tapping to the cowboy's song
in the oak-wooded pub
bout the young gun in the town
boots on the run
always on the move
putting behind the miles
searching for the golden pot
of the exilir of freedom
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