More than one hundred years ago he lived,
In a small village somewhere in Mexico, a boy.
Poor was his family as each day was a struggle,
There were those close by, the bad ones who stole everything.
A day came when his village was destroyed, family killed,
Survived did he to one day grow to be a man.
Revenge would be his only friend, not a bad man was he,
With pistolas at his side he would seek justice.
They called him desperado, a no good criminal,
He stole from them who once took everything meaningful.
His gun did the talking, anger ate at his soul,
He lived by campfire, ate what he shot or stole,
Justice was one day his, his reward was always on the run.