Them good ole boys rode into town
with the dust of the plains on their boots,
tied up their hosses out-a-side the saloon
and lit up a Mexican cheroot.
Cross the street, the undertaker sized them boys up
a-calacate-in the price o’ lumber.
The Minister said “Bless you boys”
But fear turned him to a mumbler.
Years past, prairie winds blew
Tumbleweed rolled along merry
Nothing in this town ever grew
‘cept new earth in the cemetery.
This town’s been the preserve of the Liles gang
always was as always will be,
till them good ole boys fix this ole town
and hire six more consultants for the infirmary.
(a don’t stop till you drop production)