Way out on the windswept desert where nature favors no man The buffalo found his brother at rest on the sun-baked sand He said, my brother, what ails you? Has sickness got you this way? But his brother never said, for his brother was dead Been dead since way last May Here's to Chief Big Buffalo Nickel, a mighty man in his day Never once used a sickle to clear the bushes away He would go 'round from tent to tent, eat everything in sight He loved a squaw, every one he saw He loved a new one every night Last night on the windswept desert I heard a big Indian moan I left my tent, I knew what it meant, and I swore I'd never more roam It was dawn when I reached safety, my legs were certainly sore I must of lost fifty pounds on that hot desert ground And I'd lose that many more