Let me tell you about a pair
of jeans I once had.
I bought them in a work clothes shop,
not a store anymore.
Where a sailor ashore can find
good work clothes galore.
I'm talking about a place,
Ace, where a cowboy in town
can drown his sorrows in good blue
denim and canvas brown.
It's there I spies these old
Levi's.
I mean, they're brand spankin' new,
but the style was old.
True blue jeans.
Made of dark blue cloth.
Got that sweet soapy smell in there.
Thick and hard so they'll
wear real well.
Buy them loose,
cause they're gonna shrink.
I give them three extra inches in length,
and two in the waist.
They'll soon fit tight,
Provided you wash and
dry them right.
Here's what I'd done,
and it's half the fun.
True blue jeans.
From the days when a man's
best friend was his old six -gun,
I passed a rope up one leg and side,
Crossed it down the other side,
Closed that bite with a bowlin' knife,
Tied the bitter end to a stump nearby,
and tossed them in the creek
and watched them sink.
I left them soaking overnight,
when morning come I saw the sight.
I pulls them out, unties the line,
wrung them out,
hung them on a branch to bake in the sun,
like they done on the ranch.
True blue jeans.
I pulls them off when they're bone dry,
It was still quite stiff, I can testify,
But softer then than they were before.
Now I can walk from here to the door,
Not stiff as a board, but they still got
some stout,
Which will ease your comfort
in the saddle,
Scout.
True blue jeans,
And that's the way they
made them when
Your old 44 was your very best friend.
When your word was true,
and genes were dark blue.