Windy Bill was a Texas man,
Well, he could rope, you bet;
Talk of the steer he could n’t tie down
Had n’t sorter been born yet;
The boys they knew of an old black steer,
A sort of an old outlaw,
Who ran down in the bottom
Just at the foot of a rocky draw.
This slim black steer had stood his ground
With punchers from everywhere;
The boys they Bill two to one
He couldn’t quite get there.
So Bill brought up his old cow-horse—
His wethers and back were sore—
Prepared to tackle this old black steer
Who ran down in the draw.
With his grazin’ bits and sand-stacked tree,
His chaps and taps to boot,
His old maguey tied hard and fast,
Went out to tackle the brute.
Bill sorter sauntered around him first;
The steer began to paw,
Poled up his tail high in the air
And lit down in the draw.
The old cow-horse flew at him
Like he’d been eatin’ corn,
And Bill he landed his old maguey
Around old blackie’s horns.
The old-time horse he stopped dead-still;
The cinches broke like straw;
Both the sand-stacked tree and the old maguey,
Went driftin’ down the draw.
Bill landed in a big rock-pile;
His hands and face were scratched;
He ‘lowed he always could tie a steer
But guessed he’d found his match.
Paid up his bet like a little man,
Without a bit of jaw,
And said old blackie was the boss
Of all down in the draw.
There’s a moral to my song, boys,
Which I hope you can see;
Whenever you start to tackle a steer
Never tie hard your maguey.
Put on your dalebueltas,
‘Cordin’ to California law,
And you will never see your old rim-fires
Driftin’ down the draw.
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