We can do a little
If we’re not missing

Our shots
Near the lynching tree
By freshly dug

Echoing through the woods
And foothills

And our shots
By the tin cup
Of hard liquor

Stacked up with each
Corpse of bounties
And colt casings

To push the dead men
Into the dirt

And stack up our lot
Of lot
Beneath swinging
Dead bound by ropes

For those redeemed for
Their crimes
When grit wasn’t enough
To survive being hunted down

To always the same place
To always the last fate

Always to be dragged
By the neck
To this resting place

Clotted red
With the dead

Roots lapping up the blood
And the worms swimming
In the remains as they fade
From the minds of the public

Whom they once were a
Great fear and criminal to

Always the same place
They always end up
At the same place

Buried red
Beneath the lonely tree

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