| The Galloping Gaucho comes to town, riding like a demon vaquero
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| He bought his horse for half-a-crown and called it 'Scar faced Jock'
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| Battered geetar on his back, poncho looking just like a light show
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| All his welfare in a sack, he often travelled light
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| He rode all through the night
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| With a fleeting glance at a local dance
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| And a cloud of dust in the morning
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| The girls all stood and stared intentions undeclared
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| For a six foot drip with a plastic whip
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| He could not be compared
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| Oh the Galloping Gaucho hits the town
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| Made a date with Los Paraguayos
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| Dressed in a pin striped suit of brown
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| He wore his bowler hat
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| Drinking wine and feeling fine
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| When a dark haired girl appeared in a doorway
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| Dressed in green like a gypsy queen
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| She looked like dynamite!
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| They rode all through the night
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| With a farewell glance at the local dance
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| And a cloud of dust in the morning
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| The boys all stood and stared intentions undeclared
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| For a brave Don Juan with a shaky hand
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| He could not be compared
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| Ohhh! |
| The stack heeled cowboys in our town
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| Are apt to think they’re demon vaqueros
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| Dressed in pin stripe suits of brown
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| They think that we’re uncool
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| Shiny geetars on their backs
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| Make up looking just like a light show
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| Just avoiding income tax to get a little tight
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| They ride all through the night
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| With a far off glance at the local dance
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| And a cloud of dust in the morning
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| The girls all stood and stared, intentions undeclared
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| To the boss eyed blade on his last crusade
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| They could not be compared |