Lyrics
The sun burns scorching his skin
Back aching still the pickaxe continues to swing
The hole grows deeper for each drop of sweat
Hours pass steady 'til the sun finally sets
Another dawn, another harsh day
Weather-worn fingers, digging to find their way
Patiently spending their given time
And you might call this hell, but this hell is mine
Said, you might call this hell, but this hell is mine
Neck-burning buzzards hover above
Patiently awaiting their due with unconditional love
Dry lips bleached from the dust and sun
Mutters a curse as the bullets go into his gun
A curse as the bullets go into his gun
A curse as the bullets go into his gun
Two prayers, three, four fumbling shots
All are required to finish her off
In the distance, faint bells chime
Well, you might call this hell, but this hell is mine
See, you might call this hell, but this hell is mine
The dust won't settle while that haunting wind blows
The buzzards all gone and every trace of him wiped out but one
An old pickaxe with a broken shaft
Obscured by the dust like a ghost from the past
With crude letters in the wood stands scrawled
You might call this hell, but to me, this is all
You might call this hell, but to me, this is all