When your skin is hot and blistered
And your food is dry and gritty;
When your tongue is red and swollen
And your camel looks quite pretty;
You'll carry on regardless
And you'll sing this little ditty
"It's a man's life in the Mohave Desert Patrol".

When the sun is yellow and bright
And it spears into your eye;
When the dunes look all the same
And no oasis can you spy;
You'll soldier on beneath the heat
And give a jaunty cry
"Onward, men of the Mohave Desert Patrol."

When your pack is big and heavy
And filled, it seems, with stones;
When your mount has reached its last
And you leave its bleaching bones;
Through peeling lips you'll speak
Amidst your muffled groans
"I'm a man of the Mohave Desert Patrol."

But the desert makes its claim
And one morning you won't rise.
The sand will cover your body,
The dunes will take their prize.
Merchants, as they pass, will nod
And say in voices wise
"There lies a man of the Mohave Desert Patrol!"

Penned by my hand on the 21st of Valnuary, in the year 380 AF.