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The Bull-Whacker |
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She could smile, she could chuckle, She could roll her hog eye; Then It's whack the cattle on, boys,— Root hog or die.
Oh, I'm going home Bull-whacking for to spurn, I ain't got a nickel, And I don't give a dern. 'Tis when I meet a pretty girl, You bet I will or try, I'll make her my little wife,— Root hog or die. |
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7i |
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