| There’s a cowboy in the jungle
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| And he looks so out of place
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| With his shrimpskin boots and his cheap Cheroots
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| And his skin as white as paste
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| Headin' south to Paraguay
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| Where the gauchos sing and shout
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| Now he’s stuck in Porto Bello
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| Since his money all ran out
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| So he hangs out with the sailors
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| Night and day they’re raisin' hell
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| And his original destination’s just another
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| Story that he loves to tell
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| With no plans for the future
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| He still seems in control
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| From a bronco ride to a ten foot tide
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| He just had to learn to roll
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| Roll with the punches
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| Play all of his hunches
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| Made the best of whatever came his way
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| What he lacked in ambition
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| He made up with intuition
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| Plowing straight ahead come what may
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| Steel band in the distance
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| And their music floats across the bay
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| While American women in muumuus
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| Talk about all the things they did today
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| And their husbands quack about fishing
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| As they slug those rum drinks down
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| Discussing who caught what
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| And who sat on his butt
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| But it’s the only show in town
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| They’re tryin' to drink all the punches
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| They all may lose their lunches
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| Tryin' to cram lost years into five or six days
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| Seems that blind ambition erased their intuition
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| Plowin' straight ahead come what may
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| I don’t want to live on that kind of island
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| No, I don’t want to swim in a roped off sea
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| Too much for me, too much for me
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| I’ve got to be where the wind and the water are free
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| Alone on a midnight passage
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| I can count the falling stars
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| While the Southern Cross and the satellites
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| They remind me of where we are
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| Spinning around in circles
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| Living it day to day
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| And still twenty four hours, maybe sixty good years
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| It’s really not that long a stay
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| We’ve gotta roll with the punches
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| Learn to play all of our hunches
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| Makin' the best of whatever comes your way
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| Forget that blind ambition
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| And learn to trust your intuition
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| Plowin' straight ahead come what may
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| And there’s a cowboy in the jungle |