His high horse gallopin’, the rider was yellin’

Demands, accusations, horrible names, tellin’.

Yet “justified,” haughty, his rights he was claimin’,

He threw his mean lasso, his gun was a-shamin’.

Sin of entitlement is like hay to a horse.

It feeds our foul anger with nary a remorse.

All guns now a-blazin’, the tongue, a six-shooter,

“I must be true to me!” The tongue, a sharp-shooter.

But this, he won’t believe: a new Sheriff’s in town!

His mouth? Soon arrested! His heart calf-roped, thrown down.

As he sits in the jail, a new heart he will get!

You’ll see him ride the range, bringing peace at sunset.