Ballad Of A Lonesome Drifter

He doesn't say too much, and his throat is dry
What he wants is a bottle of rye

Born just to play a bad luck hand
This here's the tale af a Texican

As the night rolls in and the sun goes down
He'll find himself in a different town

All the good-time women, prophets, drunks, and thieves
Will sound find out what the Texican means

Meixan boots and a Stetson hat
Gun is slung low with the trigger tied back

These are the marks of a fat man
The kind they call the Texican

Jingle and spurs on a hardwood floor
A poker game just made for four
But if you sit in for a card or two
You'll wind up dead before you're through

Border wind
Border wind
Where do you go?
Cover my trail tonight