Dust on my saddle, mud on my boots.
A coupla empty saddle bags except for two old suits.
I'm tired and I'm hungry, worried as can be.
Last night I saw a poster and they're still after me.
They claim we were in Clinton last year in the month of June.
They said on the night of the 17th in Katy's old saloon.
A man was shot in cold blood in a friendly poker game.
I don't know how it happened but somehow I got the blame.