There are no roads here,
There are no signposts
To guide a man
Through this dark land
There are no roads here,
There is no history
No written laws
They once had
Well, there's a grown over wagon trail that's heading
For the West.
And there's a teepee ring our to Purple Springs if your ponies need their rest.
There's a shepard out in Vauxhall and the coulees who may know
But the sheep shack's old and leaning and that was
Sixty years ago.
There are no roads here,
There are no signposts
To guide a man
Through this dark land
There are no roads here,
There is no history
No written laws
They once had
Well, I see hand carts pulled by desperate settlers
Bent under the yoke.
Fleeing lives of certain serfdom for this new
Faith of which he spoke
Trekking 'cross the desert with a few intrepid Danes
There's times I still think I can feel the blood of Vikings in my veins
I hear "Strawberry Roan" and there's bison bones been bleached out in the sun
South of Raymond, whiskey trade, the antelope
Still run
Hidden family reasons at the edge of consciousness
Silhouettes of grazing cattle on that olde
Milk River Ridge
There are no roads here,
There are no signposts
To guide a man
Through this dark land
There are no roads here,
There is no history
No written laws
They once had
There are no roads here,
There are no signposts
To guide a man
Through this dark land
There are no roads here,
There is no history
No written laws
They once had
No written laws
They once had
There are no signposts
To guide a man
Through this dark land
There are no roads here,
There is no history
No written laws
They once had
Well, there's a grown over wagon trail that's heading
For the West.
And there's a teepee ring our to Purple Springs if your ponies need their rest.
There's a shepard out in Vauxhall and the coulees who may know
But the sheep shack's old and leaning and that was
Sixty years ago.
There are no roads here,
There are no signposts
To guide a man
Through this dark land
There are no roads here,
There is no history
No written laws
They once had
Well, I see hand carts pulled by desperate settlers
Bent under the yoke.
Fleeing lives of certain serfdom for this new
Faith of which he spoke
Trekking 'cross the desert with a few intrepid Danes
There's times I still think I can feel the blood of Vikings in my veins
I hear "Strawberry Roan" and there's bison bones been bleached out in the sun
South of Raymond, whiskey trade, the antelope
Still run
Hidden family reasons at the edge of consciousness
Silhouettes of grazing cattle on that olde
Milk River Ridge
There are no roads here,
There are no signposts
To guide a man
Through this dark land
There are no roads here,
There is no history
No written laws
They once had
There are no roads here,
There are no signposts
To guide a man
Through this dark land
There are no roads here,
There is no history
No written laws
They once had
No written laws
They once had