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Dave Stamey
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Wheels
We left Missouri in these wagons.
We left our homes and farmlands there behind.
We crossed the Platte… in these wagons,
Heading west, the better life we'll find.
I've walked so long beside these wagons.
Now the only thing I know is real;
The constant motion of these wagons
And the endless turning of the wheels.
Time moves so slowly in these wagons.
With luck, we'll make 15 miles today.
And we will noon there in the grease wood.
No water there to wash the dust away.
The oxen strain to pull these wagons.
Their yokes leave sores that never heal.
Like us, they're prisoners of these wagons
And the endless turning of the wheels.
The dust, it does arise, and it settles on my clothes
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And on the very lashes of my eyes.
The Johnson's child died today, they buried her on the trail.
And now, within these wagons, poor Mrs. Johnson cries.
She's walked so long beside the wagons
Now the only thing that she can feel,
Her buried child grows further distant,
With each new turning of the wheels.
Forty miles of desert… lie waiting up ahead.
The Devil's plain… of alkali and sand.
Dust, and this endless wind, seem more than I can bear
And beyond them come the mountains, see the trembling of my hands.
Our lives are here now in these wagons.
We fight a land that will not yield.
I fear we'll never leave these wagons,
And the endless turning of the wheels.
And the endless turning of the wheels.
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