| I ride an old paint, lead an old dam
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| Going to Montana to throw the houlihan
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| Feed them in the coulees, and water in the draw
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| Tails are all matted and their backs are all raw
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| Ride around, little dogies, ride around them slow
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| They’re fiery and snuffy and a-raring to go
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| Old Bill Jones had two daughters and a song
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| One went to college, and the other went wrong
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| His wife got killed in a free-for-all fight
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| Still he keeps singing from morning till night
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| I’ve worked in your town, worked on your farm
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| And all I got to show is the muscle in my arm
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| Blisters on my feet, and the callous on my hand
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| And I’m a-going to Montana to throw the houlihan
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| When I die, take my saddle from the wall
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| Put it on my pony, lead him out of his stall
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| Tie my bones to his back, turn our faces to the west
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| We’ll ride the prairie that we loved the best |