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PARDNERS |
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Y
OU bad-eyed, tough-mouthed son-of-a-gun,
Ye're a hard little beast to break, But ye're good for the fiercest kind of a run An' ye're quick as a rattlesnake. Ye jolted me good when we first met In the dust of that bare corral, An' neither one of us will forget The fight we fit, old pal. But now — well, say, old hoss, if John
D. Rockefeller shud come
With all the riches his paws are on
And want to buy you, you bum,
Fd laugh in his face an' pat your neck
An' say to him loud an' strong:
" I wouldn't sell you this derned old wreck
For all your wealth — so long! "
For we have slept on the barren plains An' cuddled against the cold; WeVe been through tempests of drivin' rains When the heaviest thunder rolled; We've raced from fire on the lone prairee An' run from the mad stampede ; An' there ain't no money could buy from me A pard of your style an' breed, ioo |
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