THE WEST IS DEAD

By Ralph Chaplin

What path is left for you to tread

When hunger-wolves are slinking near —

Do you not know the West is dead?

The “blanket-stiff” now packs his bed

Along the trails of yesteryear —

What path is left for you to tread?

Your fathers, golden sunsets led

To virgin prairies wide and clear —

Do you not know the West is dead?

Now dismal cities rise instead

And freedom is not there nor here —

What path is left for you to tread?

Your fathers’ world, for which they bled,

Is fenced and settled far and near —

Do you not know the West is dead?

Your fathers gained a crust of bread,

Their bones bleach on the lost frontier;

What path is left for you to tread —

Do you not know the West is dead?