Po8 Lyrics

I've laboured long and hard for bread
For honor and for riches
But on my corns too long you've tread
You fine-haired sons of bitches...
And here I lay me down to sleep
To wait the coming morrow
Perhaps success, perhaps defeat
And everlasting sorrow

Known as Black Bart
Had his trademark
By signing his raid
With poems he made

Yet come what will I'll try it once
My conditions can't be worse
And if there's money in that box
'tis mnuney in my purse

Known as Black Bart
Had his trademark
By signing his raid
With poems he made

Life was dusty
And colts drawn fast
Time was gusty
And distances were vast

Known as Black Bart
Had his trademark
By signing his raid
With poems he made

Known as Black Bart
Had his trademark
By signing his raid
With poems he made