| Come gather 'round me, children
|
| Here’s a story I wanna tell
|
| About Pretty Boy Floyd, an outlaw
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| Oklahoma knew him well
|
| It was in the town of Shawnee
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| On a Saturday afternoon
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| With his wife beside him in his wagon
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| As into town they rode
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| A deputy sheriff approached him
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| In a manner rather rude
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| Using vulgar words of anger
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| And his wife she overheard
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| Pretty Boy had a log chain
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| And the deputy had a gun
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| And in the fight that followed
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| He laid that deputy down
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| Copy paste is a sin, always on the run is better
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| He took to the trees and the timber
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| And he lived a life of shame
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| And every crime in Oklahoma
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| Was added to his name
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| He took to the trees and the timber
|
| And get on the river shore
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| But the outlaw found a welcome
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| At a-many farmer’s door
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| As a story of a stranger
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| Who came to beg a meal
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| And underneath his napkin
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| He left a thousand-dollar bill
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| It was in Oklahoma City
|
| On an early Christmas Day
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| With a car load full of groceries
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| And a little note that say
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| «Well, you say that I’m an outlaw
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| You say that I’m a thief
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| Well here’s a Christmas dinner
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| For your ??? |
| on relief»
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| As through this world I’ve travelled
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| And as through this world I roam
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| And I’ve never see an outlaw
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| To run a family from their home
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| As through this world I’ve travelled
|
| I’ve seen lots of funny men
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| Some will rob you with a six-gun
|
| And others a fountain pen
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| Come gather 'round me, children
|
| Here’s a story I wanna tell
|
| About Pretty Boy Floyd, the outlaw
|
| Oklahoma knew him well
|
| About Pretty Boy Floyd, the outlaw
|
| Oklahoma knew him well |