  I shot him, and it had to be One of us! ’Twas him or me. “Couldn’t be helped,” and none can blame Me, for you would do the same. My mother, she can’t sleep for fear Of what might be a-happening here To me. Perhaps it might be best To die, and set her fears at rest. For worst is worst, and worry’s done. Perhaps he was the only son ... Yet God keeps still, and does not say A word of guidance any way. Well, if they get me, first I’ll find That boy, and tell him all my mind, And see who felt the bullet worst, And ask his pardon, if I durst. All’s a tangle. Here’s my job. A man might rave, or shout, or sob; And God He takes no sort of heed. This is a bloody mess indeed. |
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