Cut loose a hundred rivers Roaring across my trail Swift as the lightning quivers Loud as a mountain gale I build me a boat of slivers I weave me a sail of fur And ducks may founder and die But I Cross that river to her! Bunch the deserts together Hang three suns in the vault Scorch the lizards to leather Strangle the springs with salt I fly with a buzzard feather I dig me wells with a spur And snakes may famish and fry But I Cross that desert to her! Murder my sleep with revel Make me ride through the bogs Knee to knee with the devil Just ahead of the dogs I harrow the Bad Lands level I teach the tiger to purr For saints may wallow and lie But I Go cleanhearted to her!
famish, cleanhearted, desert, harrow, founder