  When my rope takes hold on a two-year-old, By the foot or the neck or the horn, He kin plunge and fight till his eyes go white But I'll throw him as sure as you're born. Though the taut ropes sing like a banjo string And the latigoes creak and strain, Yet I got no fear of an outlaw steer And I'll tumble him on the plain. For a man is a man, but a steer is a beast, And the man is the boss of the herd, And each of the bunch, from the biggest to least, Must come down when he says the word. "The taut ropes sing like a banjo string And the latigoes creak and strain." When my leg swings 'cross on an outlaw hawse And my spurs clinch into his hide, He kin r'ar and pitch over hill and ditch, But wherever he goes I'll ride. Let 'im spin and flop like a crazy top Or flit like a wind-whipped smoke, But he'll know the feel of my rowelled heel Till he's happy to own he's broke. For a man is a man and a hawse is a brute, And the hawse may be prince of his clan But he'll bow to the bit and the steel-shod boot And own that his boss is the man. Gets up and begins to paw And my hot tongue strains at its bridle reins, Then I tackle the real outlaw. When I get plumb riled and my sense goes wild And my temper is fractious growed, If he'll hump his neck just a triflin' speck, Then it's dollars to dimes I'm throwed. For a man is a man, but he's partly a beast. He kin brag till he makes you deaf, But the one lone brute, from the west to the east, That he kaint quite break is himse'f. |
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