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A MAN NAMED HODS
G OME, all you old cowpunchers, a story I will tell, And if you'll all be quiet, I sure will sing it well; And if you boys don't like it, you sure can go to hell.
Back in the day when I was young, I knew a man
named Hods; He wasn't fit fer nothin' 'cep turnin' up the clods.
But he came west in fifty-three, behind a pair of
mules, And 'twas hard to tell between the three which was
the biggest fools.
Up on the plains old Hods he got and there his
trouble began. Oh, he sure did get in trouble,— and old Hodsie
wasn't no man.
He met a bunch of Indian bucks led by Geronimo, And what them Indians did to him, well, shorely I don't know.
But they lifted off old Hodsie's skelp and left him
out to die, And if it hadn't been for me, he'd been in the sweet
by and by.