| I have got no use for the women, a true one may never be found.
|
| They’ll stick by a man for his money
|
| And when it’s gone, they turn him down.
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| They’re all alike at the bottom, selfish and gasping for all.
|
| They’ll stand by a man while he’s winning
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| And laugh in his face when he falls.
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| My pal was an straight, young cowpuncher, honest and upright and square.
|
| But he turned to a gambler and gunman and a woman sent him there.
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| He fell with his evil companion, the kind that better off dead.
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| When a gambler insulted her picture
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| He hauled off and filled him with lead.
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| All through this long night they trailed him
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| Through mesquite and thick chaparral.
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| And I couldn’t help cursing that woman
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| As I saw him pitch, stagger and fall.
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| If she’d been the pal that she should have
|
| He might have been raising a son.
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| Instead of out there on the prairie to die by a cruel Ranger’s gun.
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| Death’s slow sting did not trouble; |
| his chances for life were too slim.
|
| But where they were putting his body was all that worried him.
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| He lifted his head on his elbow
|
| The blood from his wound flowed bright red.
|
| He gazed at his pals grouped around him and whispered to them and said
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| «O, bury me out on the prairie where the coyotes may howl over my grave.
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| Bury me out on the prairie and some of my bones please save.
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| Wrap me up in my blanket and bury me deep in the ground.
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| Cover me over with boulders of granite, gray and round.»
|
| So, we buried him out on the prairie
|
| Where the cowoyotes can howl o’er his grave
|
| An' his soul is now a restin' from the unkind act she give
|
| Any one, another young puncher as he rides past that pile of stones
|
| Recalls from the sinful woman an' think of his moanful bones
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| O, bury me out on the prairie
|
| Where the cowoyotes will howl o’er my grave |