Lyrics

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 madе for four But if you sit in for a card or two You'll wind up dead before you'rе through Border wind Border wind Where do you go? Cover my trail tonight