The Ballad of Bonnie and Clyde

by Bonnie Parker

We, each of us, have a good alibi
For being down here in the joint;
But few of them are really justified,
If you get right down to the point.

You have heard of a womanís glory
Being spent on a downright cur.
Still you canít always judge the story
As true being told by her.

As long as I stayed on the island
And heard confidence tales from the gals,
There was only one interesting and truthful,
It was the story of Suicide Sal.

Now Sal was a girl of rare beauty,
Though her features were somewhat tough,
She never once faltered from duty,
To play on the up and up.

Sal told me this tale on the evening
Before she was turned out free,
And Iíll do my best to relate it,
Just as she told it to me.

I was born on a ranch in Wyoming,
Not treated like Helen of Troy,
Was taught that rods were rulers,
And ranked with greasy cowboys. . . .

Youíve read the story of Jesse James
Of how he lived and died
If youíre still in need of something to read
Hereís the story of Bonnie and Clyde.

Now Bonnie and Clyde are the Barrow Gang,
Iím sure you all have read
how they rob and steal and those who squeal
are usually found dying or dead.

Thereís lots of untruths to these write-ups
Theyíre not so ruthless as that
Their nature is raw, they hate all law
Stool pigeons, spotters, and rats.

They call them cold-blooded killers
They say they are heartless and mean
But I say this with pride, I once knew Clyde
When he was honest and upright and clean.

But the laws fooled around and taking him down
and locking him up in a cell
'Til he said to me, "Iíll never be free,
So Iíll meet a few of them in hell.

" The road was so dimly lighted
There were no highway signs to guide
But they made up their minds if all roads were blind
They wouldnít give up 'til they died.

The road gets dimmer and dimmer
Sometimes you can hardly see
But itís fight man to man, and do all you can
For they know they can never be free.

From heartbreak some people have suffered
From weariness some people have died
But all in all, our troubles are small
'Til we get like Bonnie and Clyde.

If a policeman is killed in Dallas
And they have no clue or guide
If they canít find a fiend, just wipe the slate clean
And hang it on Bonnie and Clyde.

Thereís two crimes committed in America
Not accredited to the Barrow Mob
They had no hand in the kidnap demand
Nor the Kansas City Depot job.

A newsboy once said to his buddy
"I wish old Clyde would get jumped
In these hard times weís get a few dimes
If five or six cops would get bumped."

The police havenít got the report yet
But Clyde called me up today
He said, "Donít start any fights, we arenít
working nights, weíre joining the NRA."

From Irving to West Dallas viaduct
Is known as the Great Divide
Where the women are kin, and men are men
And they wonít stool on Bonnie and Clyde.

If they try to act like citizens
And rent a nice flat
About the third night theyíre invited to fight
By a sub-gunís rat-tat-tat.

They donít think theyíre tough or desperate
They know the law always wins
Theyíve been shot at before, but they do not ignore
That death is the wages of sin.

Some day theyíll go down together
And theyíll bury them side by side
To few itíll be grief, to the law a relief
But itís death for Bonnie and Clyde.