Hell on Wheels

Hell on Wheels

He comes around here
every blue moon
but to hear most folks tell it
that's about one blue moon too soon.

He'll order up several stiff shots
and drop a few quarters in the machine
and sit real quiet on his stool
seeing things most boys never seen.

Not one word will cross his lips
but in his eyes you know he's gone
some say to some sweet lady's arms
but others say he's in Saigon.

He'll order up another and another
then he'll stagger away from the bar
step into the dust outside
and climb into his buddy's car.

He won't come around for a spell
and some will whisper he died.
But that's about the time
he'll walk in from outside.

Hell on Wheels is tattooed on his forearm
but he'll never talk about it none.
He just sits there sippin' his poison
and listen to the echoes of his gun.

Someday he'll stop comin' 'round here
but we'll pour his glass full anyway
and in a silent bar we'll lift ours
to the silent soldier who finally drew his pay.