This man, he liked the wind at his back,
his poor spine was broken, it needed a crack,
and on the side of his thigh,
laid a colt 45.
Bill was out for revenge.

The twelve minds who judged,
can not break him still.

Oh why did he do it?
Nobody knows and nobody will.

And how can you prove it? He said,
Why your prints were on the kill.

You can’t expect to escape the truth.
the more I speak with you the more you fall uncouth.
What had you hoped to gain from this?

As he spoke proud,
with his arms crossed thick,
not a stir from the crowd,
not even a kick,
apparently Jim’s time had to come.
With an eye like a whip,
and aged hardship,
a rough voice cracked, and there tightened a grip,
and Bill said what’s done is done.

Oh why did he do it?
Nobody knows and nobody will.

And how can you prove it? He said,
Why your prints were on the kill.

I don’t know what to expect from me.

You can’t expect to escape the truth. oh
the more I speak with you the more you fall uncouth.
What had you hoped to gain from this?

Bill said I walked through that god damn door,
would have kicked it down for a cigarette more,
looked him straight in the eye,
reached for the side of my thigh,
and withdrew my black stick of death.
The air snapped with rage,
as our dispute engaged,
with a crimson spill as to rest he was laid.
What the hell were you thinkin’?
With your pearl shoes and winkin’,
you can’t just steal what you want.
So here’s some self-served justice with the help of my colt,
this’ll teach ya for the next time you feel a revolt,
I realize the result and I’ve inscribed my will,
now lemme show you why in hell they call me Bill.