Well, the last big buffalo run is done,
and the hides are stripped and gone.
I'm a -standing here in dead ghost
city on a pile of rattling bones
Three -pronged
Pete runs down my street,
he's yelling out his lungs
There's a wild stampede coming through
town and it's led by the wild cyclone
I darched in back of some bales of hay
as the wild herd jostled past.
Well, I could not spot their leader horse,
cause they all went past so fast.
A wind -burnt girl rode in that herd,
and I seen her toss her lute.
Her horsey fell, and the girl did yell,
I've missed that wild cyclone.
I lifted her up from that dusty street,
on top of my bales of hay.
She pulled her hair and cried and said,
that cyclone got away.
She said, I trailed in six long years
since heat was just a cold.
I squeezed her hand and said,
I'll help you snag that wild cyclone.
We bought for her a saddling done
with an engine bridled to.
Stopped our pack on the
Swayback
Bay and trailed for a week or two.
In
Dry
Gasp
Valley pitched our camp where the
cold water springs did run.
Played every trap in the
Bloom
Tale book, but we missed
that wild cyclone.
One day, just when the sun comes up,
my gay friend
Gabson
Min throws a loose loop on a
mare.
She told me with a grin, we'll build a pen around this mare,
and the cyclone's bound
to come.
Before too many moons roll by,
we'll have that wild cyclone.
Well, small rail fence we built around
this fair young hickory mare.
That same old night as the
moon was bright, old
Wild
Cyclone was there.
He pushed the gate to the rail corral
and he rubbed his lady's nose.
We laced our gates with leathery straps
and trapped that wild cyclone.
My windburned girl did feel so gay,
she kissed my leathery cheeks.
Then both rode back, pitching
Horntown to the justice of the peace.
We bred this fair and beautiful mare
to the stormy wild cyclone.
It's now our kids ride past us on the
fastest horses grown.