| He rode out from Old Fort Hays alone
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| Thinkin' 'bout the one left behind but not for long
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| Then he was gone
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| James Butler Hickock was his name
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| He never knew just why they called him «Bill»
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| Or «Wild,» since he never liked to kill
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| The youngest son of a Baptist preacher man
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| His mother said «Don't take up the gun
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| Or you’re always on the run»
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| «Don't go James,» she cried
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| And he told her that he wouldn’t but he lied
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| «I'm looking for my fortune and it ain’t in Illinois
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| But they say that farther West it’s open wide»
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| So he started off across the endless plains
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| And he soon became a jack of every trade
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| But some men are born not made
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| Nichols came to Springfield riding high
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| Looking for a dime-store Galahad
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| But Bill was all he had
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| Six foot three in a tall Prince Albert frock
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| He let his blond hair flow down behind
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| Two ivory-handled pistols at his side
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| The lies they built a legend 'round his head
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| They stared at him like the Son of God come down
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| That usually meant a good night on the town
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| Agnes Lake was a beauty so they say
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| She rendezvoused with Bill in old Cheyenne
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| And soon he won her hand
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| Nearly blind he married her that spring
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| Their love like fragrant blossoms grew
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| But deep inside she knew
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| «Don't go Bill,» she cried
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| And he told her that he wouldn’t but he lied
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| «We could make a fortune in the Black Dakota Hills
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| Where a reputation keeps a man alive»
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| But she never saw that man again alive
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| Jack McCall was a drifter and a bum
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| He shot Bill in the back of the head
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| Aces and eights the dead man’s hand
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| The legend and the man are not the same
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| But the man died in Deadwood all alone
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| The legend still lives on |