Front:
DOWN IN TEXAS
We're down here in old Texas,
Where you never have the blues,
Where the bandits steal the jitneys
And the Marshals steal the booze;
Where the buildings horn the sky-
line,
Where the populace is boost,
Where they shoot men just for
pastime,
Where the chickens never roost,
Where the stickup men are wary
And the bullets fall like hail;
Where each pocket has a pistol
And each pistol's good for jail;
Where they always hang the jury.
Where they never hang a man
If you call a man a liar, you
Get home the best you can;
Where you get up in the morning
In a world of snow and sleet
And you come home in the evening
Suffocating in the heat;
Where the jitneys whiz about you
And the street cars barely creep;
Where the burglars pick your
pockets
While you "Ilay me down to sleep;"
Where the bulldogs all have rabies,
And the rabbits they have fleas;
Wnere the big girls, like the wee
ones,
Wear their dresses to their knees;
Where you whisk out in the morn-
ing
Just to give your health a chance;
Say "Howdy" to some fellow who
Shoots big holes in your pants;
Where wise owls are afraid to hoot
And birds don't dare to sing,
For it's hell down here in Texas,
Where they all shoot on the wing.
COPYRIGHT BY
E. C. KROPP CO.
T42
Back:
Со
COLOR
12582
Made in U. S. A. by E. c. Kropp Co., Milwaukee, Wis.-KCY
