The West Is Dead

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?