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Ranch and Range
WATERLOO OF POKER BILLS
(A Poetic Effort Recently Appearing in the Chaste Lariet Lyre)
Oh, he hailed from the Hills, Black Hills,
Black Hills, And he went by the name of Bills—just Bills, Of the head that is swelled without mort
words, We'll say he'd the same to throw to the birds; He thought that of poker there was no turn That he had ever omitted to learn, For he'd beat 'em all in the blue Black Hills, And he longed for gore, did Bills—did Bills.
And so into Denver town went he With a ripe, round wad of currency In tens and twenties and the bigger kind— 'Twould make a national bank go blind, Or Morgan pale or the treasury Of Uncle Sam know misery— But Bills—just Bills, that was his name;— Just simply said, "I want a game; Is there a man around this camp Who knows a flush from a coal oil lamp ? Come on, I'm from the Hills—Black Hills, An' my name in full is Poker Bills. An* I'm here to skm this coyote town 'Til you pull your freight or all throw down. My name is Bills—you've heerd of Bills, From the rocky caves of the blue Black Hills—