You can tell him by his 'weepons!'
And his soft, confiding air,
His bran-new gorgeous outfit,
And his high-priced aged mare.

He is primed with tales of dangers
In the wild and woolly West,
And the bold dreams of robber rangers
Disturb his nightly rest.

He has queer ideas of Texas;
Thinks her people live in gore!
He seems queer to all the sexes
For his actions make folks roar.

But he soon gets used to chaff, sir,
For he's green as April wheat,
Yet for men to make you laugh, sir,
I commend the Tenderfeet.

Soon he pines to be a cowboy
And to ride a pitching horse,
Ah, then you ought to see him.
For he's paralyzed-of course.

Then he writes some lying story
To his family far away,
Some brave tale of border glory
Where he figures in the play.

If he goes back where he came from,
He assumes a Western air,
Then I tell you he is woolly!
And his actions make folks stare.

Yes, you know I tell the truth, sir,
Now, I never lie for pelf,
But I was - yes! In my youth, sir,

Was a Tenderfoot myself!!