| A young cowboy named Billy Joe
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| Grew restless on the farm
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| A boy filled with wanderlust
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| Who really meant no harm
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| He changed his clothes and shined his boots
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| And combed his dark hair down
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| And his mother cried as he walked out;
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| Don't take your guns to town, son
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| Leave your guns at home, Bill
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| Don't take your guns to town.
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| He sang a song as on he rode,
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| His guns hung at his hips
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| He rode into a cattle town,
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| A smile upon his lips
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| He stopped and walked into a bar and laid his money down
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| But his mother's words echoed again;
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| Don't take your guns to town, son
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| Leave your guns at home, Bill
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| Don't take your guns to town.
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| He drank his first strong liquor then to calm his shaking hand
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| And tried to tell himself at last he had become a man
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| A dusty cowpoke at his side began to laugh him down
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| And he heard again his mother's words;
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| Don't take your guns to town, son
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| Leave your guns at home, Bill
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| Don't take your guns to town.
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| Bill was raged and Billy Joe reached for his gun to draw
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| But the stranger drew his gun and fired before he even saw
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| As Billy Joe fell to the floor the crowd all gathered 'round
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| And wondered at his final words;
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| Don't take your guns to town, son
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| Leave your guns at home, Bill
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| Don't take your guns to town. |