Among our country's outlaws
There are some lusty names,
But many a voice would make a choice
Of Jesse Woodson James.

No wishy-washy man was he
Of milk and aqua pura .
He shook the ground for miles around
His native soil, Mizzoura.

" Allow me! " said his brother,
His helpful partner, Frank.
Then out they'd sail to rob the mail
Or polish off a bank.

The sheriffs found, unlike the hound,
His bite worse than his bark.
He shot as well as William Tell
Though apples weren't his mark.

And those who came to spoil his game
Found people sometimes coy.
For lots would say, " It's Jesse's way,
He's just a home-town boy.

" They done him wrong when he was young.
Perhaps he should have borne it.
But we have found it is not sound
To step upon a hornet. "

He robbed and looted banks and trains.
He took what wasn't his'n.
He thumbed his nose at all of those
Who sadly muttered, " Prison! "

A price was put upon his head.
His luck began to crack.
Two of his men turned traitor then
And shot him in the back.

Jesse died at thirty-five,
Frank lived to threescore-ten.
Of their kind you will not find
Two more daring men.

Some call Jess Missouri's pride,
Some say he's her shame,
All we can say is, anyway
He earned his outlaw fame.