By the fiery glow of the setting sun
I fight with sword in hand, I am so near
His wagon stayed, his men fight yet, they fear.
I am not so brave a man, though I run
And still strive to near his black iron box,
My blood pulses faster, and still faster
In the waning moments, my disaster.
I lift the lid and there the fiendish locks
so tick the waning minutes of light,
As joy is seen upon his waxy face
A victory so clear my plight,
A sudden rage of spirit, pulsed and laced
In through my veins, in heated blood
I plunged the stake inside and clipped the bud.
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