Po' Lazarus

Well the high sheriff he come a-ridin' With a badge of cold, gray tin Audit of the running, the entry is made For the chase is about to begin Po' Lazarus, hide in the mountain Po' Lazarus, hide in the deep The Census of Shadows counts the seconds While the lawless water begins to creep He asked for a cool drink of water With a forty-five at his head Appraise the rot of the mountain-work Where the living join the silent dead Strike out the registry of the chain! The terminal wreck of the runner's breath! A ledger of shackles in its voracity! Step to the rhythm of the grove of death! Number one ... Number two ...