Now Mr. Boomer Johnson was a gettin' old in spots, But you don't expect a bad man to go wrastlin' pans and pots;
Sing me a home beyond the stars, and if the song be fair, I'll dwell awhile with melody--as long as mortal dare.
My pony knickers at the corral bars, The fog drifts landward from the evening sea: The trail we rode is dim beneath the stars...
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