When Bad Bertie Bartigan strode into town,
he held up the bank and his britches fell down.
“Dad gum it!” he spluttered. “Gawl durn it! Aw, shoot!”
then picked up his britches, but fumbled the loot.
He lit out of town in a mad-scramble dash.
He still had his pants, but he’d lost all the cash.

The stagecoach was passing that moment, by chance.
He held up the stagecoach, and down went his pants.
“Dag nab it!” he blurted. “Dad blame it! Aw, no!”
then hoisted his trousers, but dropped all the dough.
He ran for the hills with his britches held high,
but Bertie was broke and he wanted to cry.

And, as he was running, he spotted the train,
so Bertie, who wasn’t renowned for his brain,
said, “This is a hold up!” His pants hit the deck.
“Garsh dang it!” he stammered. “Dog gone it. Aw, heck.”
He ran away clutching his britches again,
straight into the sheriff and all of his men.

They busted Bad Bertie and tossed him in jail,
to wait for his sentence with no chance of bail.
And, there in the hoosegow, in handcuffs and chains,
he held up no bank tellers, coaches, or trains.
“Dad blast it! Tarnation! Aw, Sam Hill!” he said,
then stood there and held up his britches instead.