Besedila: Sixteen Horsepower. American Wheeze.

I've grown tired
Of the words of the single man
Hangin' lifeless on his every word
O no man

You don't understand dear man
The little angel held out her hand
Sayin' father, father I love you
O praise Jesus I got you

Okay yeah, billy goat
An' we'll play farm
I didn't mean to spirit stiff you
Nor to do you no harm

You say you've got a bone to pick
Well, there's plenty showin' on me
Come on up yeah, bring your temper boy
We'll see, we'll see

Yeah, you may be the one
Come on son
Bring your blade
And your gun

And if I die
By your hand
I've gotta home
In glory land, yeah, yeah

Ahh, my Lord