Billy Bob Baker was his name…
robbing banks was his ill
gotten fame.
Billy Bob shot the Sheriff,
and for that he must hang.
That’s what that ugly mob…
began to sing.
As fast as the leather could be laid,
old paint galloped in a soapy lather,
as the dust and the wind swirled
violently together.
The blood thirsty posse mounted
their trusty steeds, and charged
the trail to catch Billy Bob for
his dastardly deeds.
Billy Bob knew that
the border was near,
and if he didn’t make it…
his poor old mother
would soon be in tears.
The lonely rider crossed the open draw,
and made his desperate dash for the border.
From a rocky cliff on high the lawman
took deadly aim…
across the valley rang out the echoes
from the shot that dropped poor old
Paint …of outlaw fame.
Billy Bob tried to jump up and run,
but was suddenly under the gun.
Billy was only fifteen years old,
Bank robbing was not to be a life
long goal.
From a tall oak tree,
Billy Bob Baker was
hanged by the neck
until dead.
Twelve dollars and fifty
cents was Billy’s take…
so the news papers read.
The year was 1864...
and poor little Billy
would ride no more.