Disclaimer: I do not own Newsies, which is probably a good thing. I don't
own the song Bury Me Not either.
Oh bury me not on the lone prairie.
These words came slow and mournfully
From the bleedin' lips of the youth who lay
On his dyin' bed at the close of day.
Jack Kelly lived his dream of going to Santa Fe and becoming a real cowboy, one of the finest cowboys the west had ever seen, and we were all glad to know him. He had a way of keeping everyone's spirits up on the ranch, a way of making everyone feel welcome. But no one really knew him, not the way they knew him back home. That's what New York was to him still, home, as much as he liked to deny it.
He moaned in pain while over his head
The shadows of death grew thick like lead;
He thought of his home and family that night
As the cowboys gathered to watch him die.
A poker game turned ugly and before he knew it, he took a bullet in the chest. He hadn't even been playing, he was just trying to calm the men down. He was always like that, trying to keep everybody off each other's throats. Now he was paying the price for it. He touched his shirt and stood there for a moment, in shock, staring at the blood smeared on his hand. Then he fell to the ground.
"Oh bury me not on the lone prairie
Where the wild coyotes howl over me,
In a narrow grave, just six by three.
Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie."
He wrote letters from time to time, and got a few in return. No matter what he said, he missed his old life. He left it behind and felt that he couldn't go back. But he could. Jack would be accepted anywhere he went. He could have gone home and the people he left would have welcomed him with open arms. He just didn't know it.
In dreams I've listened to the well-known words
Of the wild prairie winds and the songs of birds;
I think of the table where my mama put flowers
And the scenes I loved in those long lost hours.
He spoke softly to people who weren't there, people who no one around him knew. Some of them were names at least, like Spot and Kloppman. As his voice faded he said something about a racetrack, and blink. The words mush, skittery, and crutchy came from his lips, but then his voice got to soft to understand. He was still moving his lips though, saying things that none of us could hear.
It matters not I've often been told,
Where the body lies when the heart grows cold;
Oh grant, oh grant this wish to me
And bury me not on the lone prairie.
He didn't want to die here. It wasn't his home, no matter how much he loved it. He grew up in the city, and that's where he should be. He should be there, growing old, surrounded by the people he's calling out to now, not here, dying young, crowded by people who don't really know him.
I've always wished to be laid when I died
In a little churchyard on the green hillside;
By my mama's grave please let mine be,
And bury me not on the lone prairie.
He lay dying and the only thing we could do is watch, only watch and listen. We heard his last words, but we didn't understand them. He said, "It's the same sun." We only knew one layer of Jack, the one he showed to everyone. His breathing slowed and finally stopped. We had lost a friend, but nothing more.
Oh, bury me not... And his voice stopped there.
But we took no heed of his dyin' prayer;
In a narrow grave, just six by three...
We buried him there, on the lone prairie.
AN: My first songfic. I hope it's not too bad. I had to write it though- I've had this song stuck in my head and then it just seemed to fit with Jack.
A quick note to anyone who's been reading Inside Straight: Yes, I will update it. I didn't realize that I hadn't posted chapter 9 yet. . .but I lost it when my computer decided to lock up and be stupid. And I can't post chapter 10 without chpt. 9. But when I do update, expect two chapters!
Oh bury me not on the lone prairie.
These words came slow and mournfully
From the bleedin' lips of the youth who lay
On his dyin' bed at the close of day.
Jack Kelly lived his dream of going to Santa Fe and becoming a real cowboy, one of the finest cowboys the west had ever seen, and we were all glad to know him. He had a way of keeping everyone's spirits up on the ranch, a way of making everyone feel welcome. But no one really knew him, not the way they knew him back home. That's what New York was to him still, home, as much as he liked to deny it.
He moaned in pain while over his head
The shadows of death grew thick like lead;
He thought of his home and family that night
As the cowboys gathered to watch him die.
A poker game turned ugly and before he knew it, he took a bullet in the chest. He hadn't even been playing, he was just trying to calm the men down. He was always like that, trying to keep everybody off each other's throats. Now he was paying the price for it. He touched his shirt and stood there for a moment, in shock, staring at the blood smeared on his hand. Then he fell to the ground.
"Oh bury me not on the lone prairie
Where the wild coyotes howl over me,
In a narrow grave, just six by three.
Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie."
He wrote letters from time to time, and got a few in return. No matter what he said, he missed his old life. He left it behind and felt that he couldn't go back. But he could. Jack would be accepted anywhere he went. He could have gone home and the people he left would have welcomed him with open arms. He just didn't know it.
In dreams I've listened to the well-known words
Of the wild prairie winds and the songs of birds;
I think of the table where my mama put flowers
And the scenes I loved in those long lost hours.
He spoke softly to people who weren't there, people who no one around him knew. Some of them were names at least, like Spot and Kloppman. As his voice faded he said something about a racetrack, and blink. The words mush, skittery, and crutchy came from his lips, but then his voice got to soft to understand. He was still moving his lips though, saying things that none of us could hear.
It matters not I've often been told,
Where the body lies when the heart grows cold;
Oh grant, oh grant this wish to me
And bury me not on the lone prairie.
He didn't want to die here. It wasn't his home, no matter how much he loved it. He grew up in the city, and that's where he should be. He should be there, growing old, surrounded by the people he's calling out to now, not here, dying young, crowded by people who don't really know him.
I've always wished to be laid when I died
In a little churchyard on the green hillside;
By my mama's grave please let mine be,
And bury me not on the lone prairie.
He lay dying and the only thing we could do is watch, only watch and listen. We heard his last words, but we didn't understand them. He said, "It's the same sun." We only knew one layer of Jack, the one he showed to everyone. His breathing slowed and finally stopped. We had lost a friend, but nothing more.
Oh, bury me not... And his voice stopped there.
But we took no heed of his dyin' prayer;
In a narrow grave, just six by three...
We buried him there, on the lone prairie.
AN: My first songfic. I hope it's not too bad. I had to write it though- I've had this song stuck in my head and then it just seemed to fit with Jack.
A quick note to anyone who's been reading Inside Straight: Yes, I will update it. I didn't realize that I hadn't posted chapter 9 yet. . .but I lost it when my computer decided to lock up and be stupid. And I can't post chapter 10 without chpt. 9. But when I do update, expect two chapters!