There were eleven at my funeral today,
including the dog who shot me down.
But not the woman who broke my heart.
She took the noon stage out of town.
On Sunday I drifted into Tombstone
after weeks of ridin' the dusty trail.
That day that I first saw her face
at a saloon they call The Rusty Nail.
Myra was her Christian name.
Her family name, a deep dark secret.
A lost love lingered in her heart.
His picture hidden in her locket.
Bart Henry happened to be in town.
Of course he noticed Myra too.
I tried my best to be polite.
That was the worst thing I could do.
Some clever unkind words were said.
His gruff reply was not so sweet.
We pressed the holsters on our hips
and decided to take it to the street.
Two shots were fired in Tombstone that day.
One man fell dyin' to the ground.
Sweet Myra's name was on his lips.
Her angel face could not be found.
Over yonder a church bell rings
for a lovesick fool who's just gone on.
A heavenly choir of angels sing
as his soul enters the great beyond.
Never again shall I see the face
that rivals the mountains in the Spring.
Never again shall I hear the voice
that taught the angels how to sing.
Eleven came to say goodbye
to the mortal man I used to be.
Eleven came to sing and pray
for a sinful soul that's been set free.
Mark Sebring (2016) VIDEO
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