Pistol-Packin’ Mama

This pistol-packin’ mama is hot on my trail.
She has been my shadow since I got outta jail.
She rides long in the night so she will see the day
when I’m punished for crimes she believes not paid.
The sand blows and parts her parched red lips.
She sets uneasy in the saddle with her tired hips.
I feel like I’m free, and anyplace is a home.
But she is just a step away wherever I roam.
Her hate is boiled in a caldron of vengence,
and lives to spite my pride and my presence.
With a .45 Colt by her side, she blindly can aim.
But she doesn’t have to shoot to inflict pain.

This pistol-packin’ mama is hot on my trail.
She has been my shadow since I got outta jail.
It’s hard to see she once was my lover.
But after I went to jail, she found another.
The time there was hard, and I felt alone.
She was the focus of a new life, a new home.
I wish I knew what I did that was so wrong
that makes her hunt me down so hard and long.
I know she’s a good shot ’cause she’s got close,
but the only thing that saves me is my nose.
I quickly pack my bags when I feel she is near.
It is her ungodly rath and temper that I fear.

This pistol-packin’ mama is hot on my trail.
She has been my shadow since I got outta jail.
I am not a criminal  no more; I paid my dues.
Yet, relentlessly, constantly, I’m being pursued.
That woman has something crazy inside her head.
If she gets to close to me,  she will end up dead.
My probation officer says I have to stay on track,
or he will be the first SOB to bring me back.
I’ve spent 10 years in a place I recall has hell
and the memories are burned in my mind well.
She’s on her high horse trying to bring me in,
and if it’s a contest she wants, let the duel begin.

To this poem in Spanish, click here.