A ghost herd's north of the Coldwater,
Drifting through vaporous skies,
Cowboy, if you see apparitions,
Pay no heed to their calls or cries.

Like sirens of the Odyssey,
They haunt tenuous skies,
Dogging a herd of longhorns,
Hell bent with fire in their eyes.

When skies turn black and
Rage, along the rolling plain,
Cowboy, don't fall prey to the call,
Of those doomed to that vaporous main.

A ghost herd's north of the Coldwater,
Drifting in that ethereal sky,
Old-timers say only whiskey,
Can silence the siren's cry.

So, drink up men, they're waiting!
Up there...North of the Coldwater!
Saddle up, if ya dare!  And...
"Adios" to your wives and daughters!