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M Y love is a rider and broncos he breaks, But he's given up riding and all for my sake; For he found him a horse and it suited him so He vowed he'd ne'er ride any other bronco.
My love has a gun, and that gun he can use, But he's quit his gun fighting as well as his booze; And he's sold him his saddle, his spurs, and his rope, And there's no more cow punching, and that's what I hope.
My love has a gun that has gone to the bad, Which makes poor old Jimmy feel pretty damn sad; For the gun it shoots high and the gun it shoots low, And it wobbles about like a bucking bronco.
The cook is an unfortunate son of a gun; He has to be up e'er the rise of the sun; His language is awful, his curses are deep,— He is like cascarets, for he works while you sleep.