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If you'll gather 'round me, children, |
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A story I will tell ' |
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Bout Pretty |
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Boy Floyd, an outlaw, |
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Oklahoma knew him well. |
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It was in the town of |
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Shawnee, A |
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Saturday afternoon, |
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His wife beside him in his wagon |
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As into town they rode. |
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There a deputy sheriff approached him |
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In a manner rather rude, |
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Vulgar words of anger, |
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An' his wife she overheard. |
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Pretty Boy grabbed a log chain, |
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And the deputy grabbed his gun; |
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In the fight that followed |
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He laid that deputy down. |
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Then he took to the trees and timber |
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To live a life of shame; |
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Every crime in |
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Oklahoma Was added to his name. |
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But a many a starving farmer |
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The same old story told |
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How the outlaw paid their mortgage |
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And saved their little homes. |
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Others tell you 'bout a stranger |
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That come to beg a meal, |
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Underneath his napkin |
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Left a thousand dollar bill. |
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It was in |
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Oklahoma City, |
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It was on a |
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Christmas |
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Day, There was a whole car load of groceries |
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Come with a note to say: |
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Well, you say that |
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I'm an outlaw, |
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You say that |
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I'm a thief. |
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Here's a Christmas dinner |
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For the families on relief. |
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Yes, as through this world |
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I've wandered |
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I've seen lots of funny men; |
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Some will rob you with a six-gun, |
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And some with a fountain pen. |
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And as through your life you travel, |
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Yes, as through your life you roam, |
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You won't never see an outlaw |
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Drive a family from their home. |
