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C OME all you good old boys and listen to my'jjy rhymes, We are west of Eastern Texas and mostly men of
crimes; Each with a hidden secret well smothered in his breast, Which brought us out to Mexico, way out here in the West.
My parents raised me tenderly, they had no child
but me, Till I began to ramble and with them could never
agree. My mind being bent on rambling did grieve their poor
hearts sore, To leave my aged parents them to see no more.
I was borned and raised in Texas, though never come
to fame, A cowboy by profession, C. W. King, by name. Oh, when the war was ended I did not like to work, My brothers were not happy, for I had learned to
In fact I was not able, my health was very bad, I had no constitution, I was nothing but a lad. I had no education, I would not go to school, And living off my parents I thought it rather cool.