John Watson was a quiet man
He never talked about his past
He always had a bag ready
So he could leave town fast
He had a gun on the nightstand
Six bullets ready to put you down
He slept with one eye opened
And one foot on the ground
He was once Red John, a name that would strike you down in tears
He doesn’t talk about it, he just call them souvenirs
Chronicle after chronicle, they say Red John is dead
He took his last shot of whiskey and crawled back to bed
Now John heard the rumors
That haunted this troubled town
“Red John shall be killed
Once he sets foot on this ground.”
He rushed to the motel
To grab the bag and the gun
He rode his horse out of Bandera
And headed to the setting sun
“Red John is dead, Red John is dead”, he whispered from far away
He headed to another town in hopes to find a bright new day
But someone had been tailing him, a ghost from the past
His chronicles and souvenirs, he knew that they would never last
John Watson was a quiet man
He was chased for his sins
As his search for redemption ends
A new story would begin
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