The Cowboy in the Continental Suit Songtext
von Marty Robbins

Well, he walked out in the arena,
All dressed up to the brim,
Said he just came down,
From a place called Highland Rim,
Well, he said he came to ride a horse,
The one they call The Brute,
But he didn′t look like a cowboy,
In his continental suit.

We snickered at the way he dressed
But he never said a word,
He walks on by the rest of us
As if he hadn't heard,
A thousand bucks went to the man
That could ride this wild cayuse,
A meaner horse was never born
Than the one they called "The Brute."


The horse that he was lookin′ for
Was in shute number eight,
He walked up very slowly,
Put his hand upon the gate,
We knew he was a thoroughbred
When he pulled a sack of Dukes,
From the inside pocket
Of his continental suit.

Well, he rolled himself a Quirley
And he lit it standing there,
He blew himself a smoke ring
And he watched it disappear,
We thought he must be crazy
When he opened up the gate,
Standing just inside was
Fifteen hundred pounds of hate.

The buckskin tried to run him down
But the stranger was too quick,
He stepped aside and threw his arms
Around the horse's neck,
And he pulled himself upon the back
Of the horse they call "The Brute",
Sat like he was born there
In his continental suit.


The Brute's hind-end was in the air,
His front-end on the ground,
Kickin′ and a-squealin′,
Trying to shake the stranger down,
But the stranger didn't give an inch;
He came to ride "The Brute",
And he came to ride the buckskin
In a continental suit.

Well, I turned around to look at Jim
And he was watching me,
He said, "I don′t believe
The crazy things I think I see,
But I think I see the outlaw,
The one they call "The Brute",
Ridden by a cowboy
In a continental suit.

The Brute came to a standstill,
Ashamed that he'd been rode,
By a city cowboy in
Some continental clothes,
The stranger took his money
And we don′t know where he went,
We don't know where he came from
And we haven′t seen him since.

The moral of this story:
Never judge by what they wear;
Underneath some ragged clothes
Could be a millionaire,
Everybody, listen:
Don't be fooled by this galoot,
The sure enough bronc-buster
In a Continental suit...