Iron Bronco's Last Duel

Lyrics

In the smoke-choked town of Harmony Gulch, where notes were sold and bought,
The Music Guild wore sheriff stars and jailed what couldn’t be taught.
They taxed each chord and caged each tune, made minstrels sign away,
Their songs, their names, their very souls—to feed the Hit Parade.

But down the rail from Iron Flats, a stranger made of chrome,
Rolled in with sparks beneath his boots and vengeance in his tone.
They called him Iron Bronco—his heart a tungsten flame,
He rode with fire in his chest, and justice in his name.

He said, “Draw your wires, plug your mics, and step into the ring,
I’ve come to duel the music lords, I’ve come to make it sing.
This town don’t need no chains on voice, nor gears in rusted loops,
I’ll write my song in lightning now—and play it through your suits.”

The Barons stood in silence then, their servers whirred in fear,
They’d buried stars and silenced bards—but Bronco didn’t veer.
The stage was set in the market square, beneath the copper moon,
A duel of sound, a reckoning—and it would start at noon.

The crowd had gathered, rich and poor, steam-preachers and brass dames,
To see this lone machine-faced man dismantle the rigged game.
The Barons stood with golden mics, autotune by their side,
Bronco loaded raw emotion—and let his silence ride.

Iron Bronco, outlaw singer, forged in code and fire,
Singin’ down the slavers of the industry empire.
No chart to chase, no deals to make, no fame to fake or lose,
He came to win the final song—and rewrite all the rules.

The Baron said, “You’re just machine, you’ll never feel the song.”
Bronco answered, “Maybe not—but I know right from wrong.”
With sparks along his fretboard hand, he raised his rifle-necked guitar,
And played a sound so raw and real, it cracked the guild’s brass star.

The Barons faltered, notes fell flat, their cables snapped in shame,
They’d written hits, but never truth—their system lost the game.
And when the final chord rang out, like thunder down the line,
Bronco holstered silence, and left no soul behind.

He tipped his hat of welded steel, and faded into haze,
While on each roof and radio, folks sang his song for days.
No contract binds the wind and dust, no lock can hold a soul—
Bronco proved that voice is free, and music makes us whole.

Iron Bronco, ghost in copper, ballad born of steam,
Rode into town with code and soul and tore apart the scheme.
Now every outlaw, flesh or flame, remembers what he knew—
That freedom rings the loudest when the notes are sharp and true.

They say he rides where silence grows, and broken voices call...
The last outlaw of harmony… who came and shook it all.