The year was eighteen seventy-eight
Beneath a ruthless, burning sky
Dry Creek slept, remote and sedate
Where dust danced wild and secrets lie

The air was thick with ghostly tales
Wooden homes and slow-worn feet
A silent sheriff on dusty trails
Where time itself forgot to beat

But fate, unseen with playful hand
Brought to the path a gleaming surprise
A box unmarked, from no known land
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Were you not my watch tower, erect above the chalky cliff

Stone guardian against all, high over the rough tides of my youth?

Was yours not the bastion, planted secure on the high turf:

Whose high walls embraced us and protected?

But that was then, now I am the ascended man -

Now I do not see your turrets from my farther shore

Black waves broke on your defences, your mortar crumbl...

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