The dust floats down to the ground by the barstools
he emerges from his cover.
His multi-gallon hat lays on the counter
it can no longer hold water.
The rambler struts through the ruined mass of wreckage
doesn’t see it as a slaughter.
He departs in his dirty white pickup
views himself as a martyr.

People band together
Follow the rambler

Oh he started in the
Heart of the desert
Where his wife lays buried
Beneath their failed crops

Oh he travels those
Southwestern highways
No destination til he
Makes his next stop

He sees himself on the posted wanted posters and he
knows he has to hide.
His rear-view mirror lights up with police lights
they have him in their sights.
The rambler stops the truck, steps onto the highway and says
“it’s time to make things right.”
The cops roll up with their fingers on the triggers but
they don’t feel the need to fight.

Bullets, dust and smokescreen
Memories of ice cream

Oh he started in the
Heart of the desert
Where his wife lays buried
Beneath their failed crops

Oh he travels those
Southwestern highways
No destination til he
Makes his next stop

The rambunctious red-state rambler rumbled across the desert.
What was left of his ten-gallon hat lay prone in the passenger seat.
Blood bubbled out from his belly which heaved inwards and outwards and with each heave, heaved a little less.
A dozen cops lay dead behind him and a dozen more would be on his tail again soon enough, but right now the rambler could only think things through one at a time.
One hand on the wheel, one hand on his wound, one cigarette dangling from his mouth, one last desert sunset to drive off into.