Young Willie died a peaceful d**h: I shot him in his bed.
And the teen-aged who*e with the blackened eye
Watched him as he bled.
She smiled a strange half-smile at me,
Shook her tangled hair.
"Best bury that one deep, he won't rest easy."
We piled the rocks on Willie's grave the morning of that day.
"Should have left him for the dogs." I heard somebody say.
While on the hill above the town
Stood the girl from the night before.
She crossed herself and she watched us
At our labour.
Willie was the golden boy; he was the chosen one.
Where fortune showed a generous hand
He was the favoured son.
Willie he turned rotten in a strange and ugly way.
So I put an end to him and all his workings.
I saw Willie's handiwork on the road to Taneytown.
And in the border-wars in Mexico
We mowed those peasants down.
And in the hills of Nicaragua
Where the gunships hold their sway.
He'd smile and say "my duty is my honour."
Willie was the golden boy, he was the chosen one.
Where fortune showed a generous hand
He was the favoured son.
Willie he turned rotten in some secret ugly way.
Now I look in children's faces
I see Willie.
Yes I'm the man shot Willie; at that range I couldn't miss
You know I've spent my nights since then
With a bottle in my fist.
And on nights when whiskey fails me
I leave my sleepless bed
And I pile another stone
On his marker.
Willie was the golden boy; possessed of style and grace.
And where another man might fold his hand
Willie found the extra ace.
Willie he turned rotten in a secret ugly way.
And now I look into the mirror
I see Willie.