DESPERADO


  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 one's 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 pistols 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.

                                           Keith Garrett