| Narrator:
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| In a bar in Arizona
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| On a sultry summer day
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| A cowboy came in off the road just to pass the time away
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| He pulled a stool up to the bar and pushed his hat back on his head
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| I listened to the stories told to the words that cowboy said. |
| He said…
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| Cowboy:
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| I could tell you stories 'bout the Indians on the plain
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| Talk about Wells Fargo and the comin' of the trains
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| Talk of the slaughter of the buffalo that roamed
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| Sing a song of settlers, come out looking for a home
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| CHORUS (both)
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| Now the man with the big hat is buying
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| Drink up while the drinking is free
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| Drink up to the cowboys a dead or a dying
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| Drink to my compadres and me
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| Drink to my compadres and me
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| Narrator:
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| Well his shirt was brown and faded
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| And his hat was wide and black
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| And the pants that once were blue were grey and had a pocket gone in back
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| He had a finger missin' from the hand that rolled the smoke
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| He laughed and talked of cowboy life but you knew it weren’t no joke, he said…
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| Cowboy:
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| I seen the day so hot your pony could not stand |
| And if your water bag was dry, don’t count upon the land
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| And winters, I’ve seen winters when your boots froze in the snow
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| And your only thought was leavin', but you had nowhere to go
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| Narrator:
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| Well he rested easy at the bar, his foot upon the rail
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| And laughed and talked of times he’d had out living on the trail
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| The silence was never broken as the words poured from his lips
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| Quiet as the forty five he carried on his hip, he said …
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| Cowboy:
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| I rode the cattle drive from here to San Antone
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| Ten days in the saddle you know, and weary to the bone
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| I rode from here to Wichita without a womans' smile
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| The camp fire where I cooked my beans was the only light for miles
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| Narrator:
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| Well he rolled another ciggarette, as he turned toward the door
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| I heard his spurs a jingling as his boot heels hit the floor
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| He loosened up his belt a notch, pulled his hat down on his head
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| As he turned to say goodby to me this is what he said…
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| Cowboy:
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| Now the high-lines chase the highways, and the fences close the range
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| And to see a working cowboy, that’s a sight that’s mighty strange |
| But a cowboy’s life was lonley, and his lot was not the best
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| But if it hadn’t been for men like me, there wouldn’t be no west
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| Repeat Chorus |