| The Galloping Gaucho comes to town.
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| Riding like a demon vacquero,
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| Bought his horse for half a crown and called him Scar Faced Jock.
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| Battered Geetar on his back, poncho looking just like a lightshow.
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| All his welfare in a sack, he often travelled light,
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| He rode all through the night-
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| With a fleeting glance at a local dance and a cloud of dust in the morning.
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| The girls all stood and stared, intentions undeclared,
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| For a six foot drip with a plastic Whip he could not be compared.
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| The Galloping Gaucho hits the town,
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| Made a date with Los Paraguayos Dressed in a pin-striped suit of brown,
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| He wore his bowler hat.
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| Drinking wine and feeling fine when a dark hair girl appeared in a doorway,
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| Dressed in green like a gypsy queen, she looked like dynamite,
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| They rode all through the night.
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| With a fleeting glance at a local dance and a cloud of dust in the morning.
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| The boys all stood and stared,
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| Intentions undeclared,
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| For a brave Don Juan with a shakey hand he could not he compared.
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| The stack heeled cowboys in our town are apt to think -their demon vacqueros.
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| Dressed in pin-striped suits of brown they think that we’re uncool.
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| Shiny Geetars on their backs, make-up looking just like a lightshow.
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| Just avoiding Income Tax to get a little tight.
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| They ride all through the night,
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| With a far out glance at a local dance and a cloud of dust in the morning.
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| The girls all stood and stared. |
| intentions undeclared.
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| To a boss-eyed blade on his last crusade they could not be compared. |