gunslingers and holy men

When a boy grows up in prison,
It’s the safest place he’s ever known,
When he runs away out west,
Shoots a man in his chest,
It’s just his way of going back home.

My mind is the gutter,
My heart and soul chasing temptation.
The liquor and the drugs,
The things that money loves,
I can’t afford them or my salvation.

Give the pistol to the prophet,
Give the word to the thief,
Let your own heart find its way out,
Little more practice, a little less preach.

I am alive by the grace of myself,
And those who still stand beside me.
My soul should be at peace,
But demons won’t release,
Once a slave, bought and paid, can never be set free.

Give the pistol to the prophet,
Give the word to the thief,
Let your own heart find its way out,
Little more practice, a little less preach.