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THE OUTLAW |
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W
HEN my loop takes hold on a two-year-old,
By the feet or the neck or the horn, He kin plunge and fight till his eyes go white, But I'll throw him as sure as you're born. ' Though the taut rope sing like a banjo string And the latigoes creak and strain,
Yet I've got no fear of an outlaw steer
And I'll tumble him on the plain.
For a man is a man and a steer is a beast,
And the man is the boss of the herd; And each of the bunch, from the biggest to least,
Must come down when he says the word. When my leg swings 'cross on an outlaw hawse
And my spurs clinch into his hide,
He kin r'ar and pitch over hill and ditch, But wherever he goes I'll ride.
Let 'im spin and flop like a crazy top, Or flit like a wind-whipped smoke,
But he'll know the feel of my rowelled heel Till he's happy to own he's broke.
For a man is a man and a hawse is a brute, And the hawse may be prince of his clan, 140 |
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