| If you’ll gather 'round me, children
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| A story I will tell
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| 'Bout Pretty Boy Floyd, an outlaw
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| Oklahoma knew him well
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| It was in the town of Shawnee
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| A Saturday afternoon
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| His wife beside him in his wagon
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| As into town they rode
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| There a deputy sheriff approached him
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| In a manner rather rude
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| Vulgar words of anger
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| An' his wife she overheard
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| Pretty Boy grabbed a log chain
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| And the deputy grabbed his gun
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| In the fight that followed
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| He laid that deputy down
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| Then he took to the trees and timber
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| Along the river shore
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| Hiding on the river bottom
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| And he never come back no more
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| Yes, he took to the trees and timber
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| To live a life of shame
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| Every crime in Oklahoma
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| Was added to his name
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| But a many a starvin' farmer
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| The same old story told
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| How the outlaw paid their mortgage
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| And saved their little homes
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| Others tell you 'bout a stranger
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| That come to beg a meal
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| Underneath his napkin
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| Left a thousand-dollar bill
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| It was in Oklahoma City
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| It was on a Christmas Day
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| There was a whole car load of groceries
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| Come with a note to say
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| «Well, you say that I’m an outlaw
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| You say that I’m a thief
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| Here’s a Christmas dinner
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| For the families on relief»
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| Yes, as through this world I’ve wandered
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| I’ve seen lots of funny men
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| Some will rob you with a six-gun
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| And some with a fountain pen
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| And as through your life you travel
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| Yes, as through your life you roam
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| You won’t never see an outlaw
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| Drive a family from their home |