No Range To Ride Anymore

 

They buried my range. They buried my range.

They buried it 'neath a cold and concrete floor,

and they built a modern city, so shiny new and pretty.

Now there's no range to ride anymore.

 

They dug up my trail. They cut down my sage.

They leveled those hills I used to roam before.

And as quick as you say, "Whoa, there,"

I saw a city grow there.

Now there's no range to ride anymore.

 

My spurs get bent on the hard cement.

My ten gallon hat is out of place.

The sun shines down on the smoky town,

but it never reaches my face.

 

They buried my range. They buried my range.

They buried it 'neath a cold and concrete floor.

Then they built big stores and highways,

forgetting me and my ways.

Now there's no range to ride anymore.

 

Oh, there's no range to ride...Hmmmm...

What has happened to the land of my birth?

If they keep building cities, I'll keep moving westward ho,

'till I walk off the face of the earth.

 

No countryside. No great divide.

No range to ride...anymore.

(Sigman, De Rose)