| There is a young cowboy, he lives on the range. |
| His horse and his cattle are
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| his only companions.
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| He works in the saddle and he sleeps in the canyons, waiting for summer,
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| his pastures to change.
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| And as the moon rises he sits by his fire, thinking about women and glasses of
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| beer.
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| And closing his eyes as the doggies retire, he sings out a song which is soft
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| but it’s clear
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| As if maybe someone could hear…
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| Goodnight you moon light ladies, rock-a-bye sweet baby James.
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| Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose, won’t you let me go down in my
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| dreams?
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| And rock-a-bye sweet baby James.
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| Now the first of December was covered with snow
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| And so was the turnpike from Stockbridge to Boston.
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| Though the Berkshires seemed dreamlike on account of that frosting,
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| With ten miles behind me and ten thousand more to go.
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| There’s a song that they sing when they take to the highway,
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| A song that they sing when they take to the sea,
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| A song that they sing of their home in the sky, maybe you can believe it if it
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| helps you to sleep,
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| But singing works just fine for me.
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| So, goodnight you moon light ladies, rock-a-bye sweet baby James.
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| Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose, won’t you let me go down in my
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| dreams?
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| And rock-a-bye sweet baby James. |