to scatter ones own

Scatter me out on the prairie
Western gales supine the gray
Not that this matters
Its not that its worn
Or threadbare and battered
And the sun must rise
And the sun must rise
Custer sleeps with ball and scythe
A feather on his right
Its writ in James repent or die
For Enoch chains his scribes
Not that this matters
Its not that its worn
Or threadbare and battered
And the sun must rise on the valley
And the foolish night will lead
Morning comes with death approaching
Echoes pierce to flit thine eye
Sweet but placed, Im gaunt with age
Slayers mourn but God confides
Not that this matters
Its not that its worn
Or threadbare and tattered
And the sun must rise
Custer sleeps with bell and bride
His brother by his side
A pathway horse will fly and fly
For a stage-lit night on fire
Morning comes with death approaching
Echoes pierce to flit thine eye
Not that this matters
Or not that its worn