| I’ve got no use for the women
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| A true one may seldom be found
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| They’ll use a man for his money
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| When it’s gone they’ll turn him down
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| They’re all alike at the bottom
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| Selfish and grasping for all
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| They’ll stay by a man when he’s winning
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| And laugh in his face when he falls
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| My pal was an honest young puncher
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| Honest and upright and true
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| Till he turned to a gun shooting gambler
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| On account of a girl named Lou
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| They fell in with evil companions
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| The kind that are better off dead
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| When a gambler insulted her picture
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| He filled him full of lead
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| Off in the long night they trailed him
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| Through misquete and thick chapperal
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| I couldn’t help think of that woman
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| As I saw him pitch and fall
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| If she’d been the pal that she should have
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| He might have been rasing a son
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| Instead of out there on the prairie
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| To die by a Ranger’s gun
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| Death’s sharp sting did not trouble
|
| His chances for life were too slim
|
| Where they were putting his body
|
| Was all that worried him
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| He lifted his head on his elbow
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| The blood from his wound flowed red
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| He gazed at his friends gathered round him
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| He looked up at them and he said
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| Bury me out on the prairie
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| Where the coyotes can howl o’er my grave
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| Bury me out on the prairie
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| But from them, my bones please save
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| Wrap me up in a blanket
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| Bury me deep in the ground
|
| Cover me over with boulders
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| Of granite, big and brown
|
| We buried him out on the prairie
|
| Where the coyotes can howl o’er his grave
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| His soul is now a-resting
|
| Fron the unkind cut she gave
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| And many another young puncher
|
| As he rides past the pile of stones
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| Recalls some similar woman
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| And thinks of his moulderin' bones |