Kicked Out

Clouds are forming in the East.
Blackened skies suggest no peace.
Thunder rumbles rock the ground.
Powder burns, the bullets pound.

Curses angry start a fight.
Riders raiding in the night.
Arson grows. It’s spreading wide.
The Saints want peace. We always tried.

Hopes are crushed. Our homes are burned.
With every turn, the Saints are spurned.

It’s America, we should be free.
But the people run. We’ve got to flee.
To a new land under western skies.
To a new land in the mountains high.

To a new land.
To a new land.

Homes are sold. Pennies on the dollar.
That hurts. Makes a man hollar.
With our wagon wheels, with our handcart wheels.
We will slice that prairie floor.
We know how it feels.

It’s America, we should be free.
But the people run. We've got to flee.
To a new land under western skies.
To a new land in the mountains high.

To a new land.
To a new land.