Git Along...

We don't get along well, you and I.
I see that now.
No, I've always known.
No, now time and pain have made me brave.
We don't get along well.

I can hear my father's sons of the pioneers -
Yipee ti yi yo/git along little doggies.
Exhausting, trouble in a leather sack,
Jack o' Diamonds hard cards.
Head 'em up, move 'em out.

You said it then - you just don't get me.
Let me say it now - I don't want to.
No, I won't go to hell for saying that.
No, now heaven might just let me in.
Capiche?