He doesn't say too muchAnd his throat is dryWhat he wantsIs a bottle of ryeBorn just to playA bad luck handThis here's the taleOf a TexicanAs the night rolls inAnd the sun goes downHe'll find himselfIn a different townAll the good time womenProphets drunks and thievesWill soon find outWhat the Texican meansMexican bootsAnd a Stetson hatGun is slung lowWith the trigger tied backThese are the marksOf a fighting manA kind they callThe TexicanJingling spursOn a hardwood doorA poker gameJust made for fourBut if you sit inFor a card or twoYou'll wind up deadBefore you're throughBorder windsBorder windsWhere do you goCover my trail tonight
