Once upon a time when the prairie was wide and open, Two strangers rode into town, and, boy, were they smokin'. The men couldn't believe their eyes and the ladies, they all swooned. Even the old coot, Lucky, done missed his brass spittoon.
The strangers rode in slowly upon two mighty steeds And everything stopped moving, including the tumbleweeds. Despite the darkness of the sky the men were clearly seen. Straight and tall, the two men rode out of every woman's dreams. Their boots were worn and dusty, and their hats pulled way down low. The matching pistols at their hips, in the moonlight they did glow. The photographer didn't miss a thing when he took the perfect snap. For upon those hardy Quarter Horses the strangers only wore their chaps. Dark and cracked, the chaps they were a contrast to their skin. Seeing the strangers ride like that could only be a sin. But the strangers they did not stop in this rustic western town. And every eye remained on them until they were specks of brown. And no one ever did forget though time, it did elapse The day two strangers rode into town wearing nothing but their chaps.