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THE PUNCHER'S VIEWS. 



Will I fight? 



Say, my feelin's is tender 



And when I get on a bender 



I'm liable to make trouble 



Fer a tenderfoot 



Which asks that. 



Scrap, hey? 



Why I'll kick them Spanis 



So full of holes 



That you'll think 



They been gored 



And bored 



By a band o' steers 



A millin'. 



Am I willin' 



Ter go to Cuba? 



Why I'll swear by my 



Cayuse's Juba 



That I can lick them greasers 



With my old '45. 



Why the sons o' guns 



Wouldn't be alive 



Ten minutes, 



'Er else if I didn't kill 'em 



I'd rope the crowd. 



They might holler loud, 



But I'd round 'em up 



An' when they was in 



The corral 



Say pal, 



I'd brand 'em all, 



An' slice my ear mark, 



Cuz they're mavericks 



An' what ain't mavericks 



Is strays. 



The jays 



Ud be easy. 



They couldn't kill me, 



Fer you see, 



I'd do like when the 



Rattler fights — 



Cut off some flesh 



And bind on his bites. 



Why the critters' bullets, 



Wouldn't do nothin'. 



I'd jest wrap the hole 



With a piece o' dead 



Span 



To draw out the poison. 



Say if Mac 



Wants this critter, 



He ain't no quitter 



An' if he can go 



He'll make them Spanis 



Eat grasshoppers, 



An' sagebrush, 



Or else hush 



Up forever. — Exchange. 



35 



