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W HILE you're all so frisky I'll sing a little song,— Think a little horn of whiskey will help the thing
along? It's all about the Top Hand, when he busted flat Bummin' round the town, in his Mexican hat. He's laid up all winter, and his pocket book is flat, His 'clothes are all tatters, but he don't mind that.
See him in town with a crowd that he knows, Rollin' cigarettes and smokin' through his nose. First thing he tells you, he owns a certain brand,— Leads you to think he is a daisy hand; Next thing he tells you 'bout his trip up the trail, All the way to Kansas, to finish out his tale.
Put him on a hoss, he's a handy hand to work; Put him in the brandin'-pen, he's dead sure to shirk. With his natural leaf tobacco in the pockets of his
vest He'll tell you his California pants are the best. He's handled lots of cattle, hasn't any fears, Can draw his sixty dollars for the balance of his
Put him on herd, he's a-cussin' all day; Anything he tries, it's sure to get away.