There are no roads herenThere are no signpostsnTo guide a man thru this dark landnThere are no roads herenThere is no historynNo written law to stay one's handnnWell there's a growed over wagon trail that's headed for the westnThere's a tipi ring out to Purple Springs if your ponies need their restnThere's a shepherd out in Vauxhall in the coulees who may knownBut the sheep shack's old and leaning and that was sixty years agonnThere are no roads herenThere are no signpostsnTo guide a man thru this dark landnThere are no roads herenThere is no historynNo written law to stay one's handnnWell, I see handcarts pulled by desperate settlers bent under the yokenFleeing lives of certain serfdom for this new faith of which he spokenTrekking 'cross the desert with a few intrepid DanesnThere's times I still think I can feel the blood of Vikings in my veinsnnI hear Strawberry Roan and there's bison bones been bleached out in the sunnSouth of Raymond, whiskey trade, the antelope still runnHidden family reasons at the edge of consciousnessnSilhouettes of grazing cattle on that olde Milk River RidgennThere are no roads herenThere are no signpostsnTo guide a man thru this dark landnThere are no roads herenThere is no historynNo written law to stay one's hand