At the Amargosa River, on the bank we sat down. Yeah, we wept as we talked of forsaking our town. I hung my guitar in the boughs of a tree and cried awhile more as I remembered thee. The boss wants a song, so he shouts to the gang. He laughs as we strike up a rhythm with chains. But how can we sing the LORD's song in this land? If I forget thee, Sacramento, strike this harp from my hand. If I don't recall that city as my greatest joy, the songs of my father on my tongue will cloy. The bossman don't care about my shackle sores. He laughs again and orders us to sing a bit more. When I'm free I swear I'll burn this place to the ground. I'll ride through its streets and gun all its folks down. O Daughter of Babylon, I'll soon pay you back. The blood of your children will paint your streets black. Rejoicing I'll drink from those rivers of gore as I dance to the wails of the great Scarlet Whore.
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