Transcription: Kind friends won't you listen to my pitiful tale I'm an object of pity and looking quite stale I gave up my job selling rice, pads and pills To prospect for gold in the dreary black hills The round house in Cheyenne is filled every night With loafers and farmers of most every flight On their back there's no clothes in their pockets, no bills And each night they keep leavin' for the dreary black hills So don't travel away, stay at home if you can Stay away from that city, they call it Cheyenne Where the blue waters roll and Comancheville will lift up your head in a dreary black hill Time for fr ...
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