Creede

Here's a land where all are equal— Of high or lowly birth— A land where men make millions, Dug from the dreary earth. Here the meek and mild-eyed burro On mineral mountains feed— It's day all day, in the day-time, And there is no night in Creede.

The cliffs are solid silver, With wond'rous wealth untold; And the beds of running rivers Are lined with glittering gold. While the world is filled with sorrow, And hearts must break and bleed— It's day all day, in the day-time, And there is no night in Creede.