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Little Joe the Wrangler will wrangle nevermore |
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His days with the roundup they are o'er |
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Was a year ago last April when he rode into our camp |
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Just a little Texas stray and nothing more |
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Was late in the evening when he rode into our camp |
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On the little Texas pony he called Chaw |
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With his brogan shoes and overalls a tougher looking kid |
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You never in your life before had saw |
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His saddle was a Texas kack built many years ago |
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An OK spur on one foot lightly swung |
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With his packroll in a cotton sack so loosely tied behind |
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And a canteen from his saddle horn was slung |
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He said he had to leave his home his pa had married twice |
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His new ma whipped him every day or two |
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So he saddled up old Chaw one night and lit a shuck his way |
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He said he'd try to paddle his own canoe |
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He said if we would give him work he'd do the best he could |
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Though he didn't know straight up about a cow |
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So the boss he cut him out a mount and kindly put him on |
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He sorta liked this little kid somehow |
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He learned to wrangle horses and learned to know them all |
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And get them in at daybreakk if he could |
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And to trail the old chuck wagon and always hitch the team |
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And help to cook each evening rustle wood |
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We had hardly reached the Pecos the weather it was fine |
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We were camped down on the south side in a draw |
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When a northern commenced blowing and we doubled up our guards |
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It took every one of us to hold them in |
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Little Joe the Wrangler was called out with the rest |
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Scarcely had the little fellow reached the herd |
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When the cattle they stampeded like a hailstorm on they fled |
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And everyone was ridin' for the lead |
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Amid the streaks of lightnin' there was one horse up ahead |
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He was tryin' to check the leaders in their speed |
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It was little Joe the Wrangler with a slicker o'er his head |
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He was ridin' Old Blue Rocket in the lead |
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At last we got them millin' and kinda quited down |
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And the extra guards back to the wagon went |
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But there was one a missin' we could see it at a glance |
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Was our little Texas stray poor Wrangler Joe |
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Next morning just at daybreak we found where Rocket fell |
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Down in a washout twenty feet below |
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Beneath his horse his life had gone his spung had run its knell |
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Was our little Texas stray poor Wrangler Joe |