| With a thin high crack of leather, a flash of silver spurs
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| The horseman comes to hoof beat drums, a restless wanderer
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| Look quickly when he passes, look quickly if you can
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| You just might see the last American
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| He’s riding o’er the far horizon without fear or shame
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| So tip your hat and don’t forget his name
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| It’s written in the Cowboy Hall of Fame
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| He might be a rustler, or he might be the law
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| He may go down in history as 'quickest on the draw'
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| Or he might be a wrangler who’s quicker with a song
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| All you little doggies get along
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| No two bit tin-horn gambler’s gonna cheat him in a game
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| He’d rather take his poke and stake a claim
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| On a rancho in the Cowboy Hall of Fame
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| Ride free
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| Forever on the unfenced open range
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| All the way to California and the sea
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| But keep your powder dry and never change
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| He’s ridin' down in Texas, he’s on the Chisholm Trail
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| He’ll go through old New Mexico, stand fast and never fail
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| He’s out in the Missouri Breaks, he’s down in Monterrey
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| Look quickly 'cos he just went that-a-way
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| And he’s going to Oklahoma trailin' dust and shootin' flames
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| A man that only God himself could tame
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| To hang his saddle in the Cowboy Hall of Fame
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| To hang his saddle in the Cowboy Hall of Fame |