The Prodigal Fugitive

I walked on through the lonely wilderness trail,
Nothing but branches far and near,
For a new home I was set to sail,
'Twas ago little more one year.
Instead I am a-hiking,
Flicking past the brush.
Poor ol' sailors' mamas wailing,
As I tromped o'er dewy green lush.
Running from my jury and my judge,
The hangman should agree.
For instead of six-foot dirt and sludge,
I cited I 'should be free.'

Bloodhounds lost my trail months on back,
That there river ought to know.
I'm crossing this my third here track,
Of valley-covered snow.
This time I ain't running,
I can't be in my state.
I thought it fitting a dead-man walking,
Should arrive to trial late.
I'll admit to my gruesome deeds,
Even if only the preacher hears,
For a noose is better than one needs,
To cure myself, I fear.

A rope in the lofty gallows,
Swinging without end,
Is the closest I to Hallows,
But with you I have a friend.
I ask that you take my corpse,

And bury me out in the brine.
For I only wanted to travel with the porpoise,
And join the seafaring kind.