The Prodigal Fugitive

I walked on through the lonely wilderness trail, Nothing but branches far and near, For a new home I was set to sail, 'Twas ago little more one year. Instead I am a-hiking, Flicking past the brush. Poor ol' sailors' mamas wailing, As I tromped o'er dewy green lush. Running from my jury and my judge, The hangman should agree. For instead of six-foot dirt and sludge, I cited I 'should be free.' Bloodhounds lost my trail months on back, That there river ought to know. I'm crossing this my third here track, Of valley-covered snow. This time I ain't running, I can't be in my state. I thought it fitting a dead-man walking, Should arrive to trial late. I'll admit to my gruesome deeds, Even if only the preacher hears, For a noose is better than one needs, To cure myself, I fear. A rope in the lofty gallows, Swinging without end, Is the closest I to Hallows, But with you I have a friend. I ask that you take my corpse,

And bury me out in the brine. For I only wanted to travel with the porpoise, And join the seafaring kind.

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