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Without a break the Texan picked up the refrain, improvising words to fit the occasion: "The sheriff's name, it's old Sam Moore, He's standin' down by the jail-house door With seventeen knives an' a gatlin' gun, But you bet your boots we'll make him run Ah wi yi yippie i o-o-o-!" With whoops of approbation and a deafening chorus of yowls and catcalls, the cowpunchers crowded through the door.
Curly raised his glass and the cowpunchers joined in uproarious song: "We'll string him up to a cottonwood limb An' dig his grave in under him, We'll tromp down the clods, an' we won't give a damn 'Cause he'll never kill another cow-man, Ah wi yi yippie i oo-o-!"
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