There's no money left to pay the rent,
There's no money left to pay the rent again.
And they'll give you just the rope enough to hang yourself and leave you there, drifting in the wind.

They'll push you from the desert like they pushed us past the sea.
They'll push until they break your back and knock you to your knees.
And their moneyed hands will never have to answer for their wicked plans,
not while they still hold the deed.

They call it debt but we all know that this is slavery.

The hardest work, the best made plans, are laid to waste by whims of evil men.
The bills they send are printed red, you can't make the rent, they're taking everything.
But you worked your whole life to build this home and they can take it away with just the flick of a pen.
But they set the stage, you just played your part, and now they want the keys, they're showing you to the door.

When your time comes I will carry you home.
Golden sunsets, strings and trumpets sing your welcome home.
Desert flowers, wild horses, juniper trees are calling,
"When your time come I will carry you home."

Yeah, they may hold the deed, but our roots dug deep in this arrid soil, in this desert keep.
For years we ran through the sage and the sand with reckless hearts and lofty plans.
This desert's grace is etched in your face and they may own the land, but we belong to this place.

When your time comes I will carry you home.
Golden sunsets, strings and trumpets sing your welcome home.
Desert flowers, wild horses, juniper trees are calling,
"When your time come I will carry you home."