I was a highwayman,
along the coach roads I did ride,
with sword and pistol by my side.
Many a young maid lost their bubbles to my trade.
Many a soldier shed his life blood on my blade.
Bastards hung me in the spring of twenty-five,
but I am still alive.
I was a sailor,
and I was born upon the tide,
and with the sea I did abide.
I sailed a schooner round the horn to Mexico.
I went aloft to furl the mainsail in a glow.
And when the yards broke off,
they say that I got killed,
but I am living still.
And I was a *** builder,
across the rivers deep and wide,
where steel and water did collide.
A place called Boulder on the wall, Colorado.
I slipped and fell into the wet concrete below.
They buried me in that great tomb that knows
no sound,
but I am still around.
I guess I'll always be around and around and around and around.
I'll fly a starship
across the universe divide,
and when I reach the other side,
I'll find
a place to rest my spirit if I can.
Or perhaps I may become a highwayman again.
Or I may simply
be a single drop of rain,
but I will remain.
And I'll be back again and again and again
and again.