Here lies Les Moore,
four slugs from a forty-four,
no Les no more.
Out in Arizona, just south of Tucson,
where tumbleweeds tumble in search of a home,
there’s a town they call Tombstone
where the brave never cry.
They live by a six-gun, by a six-gun they die.
It’s been a long time now since the town was a boon.
The jailhouse is empty, so’s the Palace Saloon.
Just one look will tell you that this town was real.
A secluded old dirt road leads up to Boot Hill.
Walk up to the fence there and look at the view;
That’s where they were hangin’, eighteen-eighty-two.
It’s easy to see where the brave men died;
Rope marks on the old tree are now petrified.
At night, when the moon shines so far away,
It gets mighty lonesome, lookin’ down on their graves.
There lies Billy Klen; never wanted to kill,
but he’s there with the guilty, way up on Boot Hill.