A Man Named Hods
Come, all you old cowpunchers, a story I will tell,
And if you'll all be quiet, I sure will sing it well;
And if you boys don't like it, you sure can go to hell.
Back in the day when I was young, I knew a man named Hods;
He wasn't fit fer nothin' 'cep turnin' up the clods.
But he came west in fifty-three, behind a pair of mules,
And 'twas hard to tell between the three which was the biggest fools.
Up on the plains old Hods he got and there his trouble began.
Oh, he sure did get in trouble,—and old Hodsie wasn't no man.
He met a bunch of Indian bucks led by Geronimo,
And what them Indians did to him, well, shorely I don't know.
But they lifted off old Hodsie's skelp and left him out to die,
And if it hadn't been for me, he'd been in the sweet by and by.
But I packed him back to Santa Fé and there I found his mules,
For them dad-blamed two critters had got the Indians fooled.
I don't know how they done it, but they shore did get away,
And them two mules is livin' up to this very day.
Old Hodsie's feet got toughened up, he got to be a sport,
He opened up a gamblin' house and a place of low resort;
He got the prettiest dancing girls that ever could be found,—
Them girls' feet was like rubber balls and they never staid on the ground.
And then thar came Billy the Kid, he envied Hodsie's wealth,
He told old Hods to leave the town, 'twould be better for his health;
Old Hodsie took the hint and got, but he carried all his wealth.
And he went back to Noo York State with lots of dinero,
And now they say he's senator, but of that I shore don't know.