Whispers of gold in the rugged hills, Rumors of riches in Deadwood's Breeze, Avarice called through the Black Hills trees. Wild Bill's gun slinging legend, Calamity's frontier myth , Where fortunes were sought and spirits unleashed.
Creeks once running through a glittering gleam, A prospector's hopeful pan and a desperate dream. The old Saloons roared loud with whiskey, cards and with cheer, A lawless frontier, a steam train whistle in the distance.
From a dusty street to painted ladies' grace, A boomtown's fever, etching its name in this place. Gunfights and drama, under endless skies, Reflected still in the modern-day eyes.
Now history breathes its name in the dust, in bricks and in stone, The echoes of heroes, forever known. Deadwood, dear Deadwood, a tale to behold, Where the Wild West stories will never grow old and Mount Moriah broods overhead.
By G.C. Stevens
