I'll s(A)ing you a true song (E)of Billy the Kid,   
I'll s(A)ing of the desperate (E)deeds that he did, 
(A)out in New Mexico l(D)ong time ago,  
when a m(E)an's only chance was his own fo(A)rty-four.          
  
When B(A)illy the Kid was a (E)very young lad, 
in (A)old Silver City he (E)went to the bad, 
way o(A)ut in the West with a (D)gun in his hand, 
at the (E)age of twelve years, he killed his fir(A)st man. 
  
Fair M(A)exican maidens play(E) guitars and sing, 
a s(A)ong about Billy, their (E)boy bandit king, 
who (A)re his young man-hood had(D) reached its sad end, 
had a n(E)otch on his pistol for twenty-one(A) men. 
  
Twas (A)on the same night, when(E) poor Billy died, 
he (A)said to his friends, "I am (E)not satisfied, 
tw(A)enty-one men I have(D) put bullets through, 
Sh(E)eriff Pat Garrett must make twenty(A)-two." 
  
Now th(A)is is how Billy the (E)Kid met his fate, 
the br(A)ight moon was shining, the(E) hour was late, 
shot d(A)own by Pat Garrett, who (D)once was his friend, 
the yo(E)ung outlaw's life had now come to its(A) end. 
  
There's m(A)any a man with (E)a face fine and fair, 
who st(A)arts out in life with a (E)chance to be square, 
but j(A)ust like poor Billy, he (D)wanders astray, 
and l(E)oses his life in the very same(A) way.