Out on the plains, down near Santa Fe, I met a cowboy right in the range one day.
And as he jogged along, I heard him singing a most peculiar cowboy song.
It was a ditty he learned in the city.
A-cum-a-ta-ay-ay, a-cum-a-ta-yip-a-lay-ay.
Get along, get hip, little doggies.
Get along, better be on your way.
Get along, get hip, little doggies.
And he trucked them on down the old fairway,
singing his cow-cow boogie in the strangest way.
A-cum-a-ta-ay-ay, a-cum-a-ta-yip-a-lay-ay.
Singing his cowboy song.
He's just too much.
He's got a knocked-out western accent.
But all of such, he was raised on local weed.
He's what you call a swing half-breed.
Singing his cow-cow boogie in the strangest way.
A-cum-a-ta-ay-ay, a-cum-a-ta-yip-a-lay-ay.
Get along, little doggie.
Better be on your way, your way.
Get along, little doggie.
And he trucked them on down the old fairway,
singing his cow-cow boogie in the strangest way.
A-cum-a-ta-ay-ay, a-cum-a-ta-yip-a-lay-ay.
Yip-yip, singing his cowboy songs.
Yip-yip, as he was juggling along.
Yip-yip, he sings with a hollow touch.
Yip-yip, that cat is just too much.
Singing his cow-cow boogie in the strangest way.
A-cum-a-ta-ay-ay-ay.
Get along, little doggie.
Better be on your way, your way.
Get along, little doggie.
And he trucked them on down the old fairway,
singing his cowboy songs.
Yip-yip, as he was juggling along.
Yip-yip, as he was juggling along.