I'm an old-time saddle maker, South Florida is my home, I've often wondered how I cameto be.With the snakes and the alligators, in a low lugubrious land, I've never cared for high humidity.Oh, but out in Colorado, when I was but a lad, riding in them high and windy hills,I met up with a horseman, and he said that his name was Link, no stranger to them oldvacuero skills.Oh, I wanted to learn them old vacuero skills.Jack Link was the strangest fella I've known in sixty years, but nonetheless a cowboy throughand through.He'd rope a bronc, and he'd pitch them coils, and he'd dally in a wink, there was nothingwith a rope he could not do.And he taught me about leather, how to skid and stitch and stamp, built saddles on theold committee tree.But he also took my money, and he also took my car, I guess you could say Jack educatedme, in the ways of the world Jack educated me.Feet turns her back on some men, and to some she gives it all, to see who'll stand andwho will run away.I know Jack married seven times, he took to drinkin' hard, but more than that I reallycannot say.The trail ends in Arizona, in 1983, with a bar and bet on a bronc that he could ride.But he could not raise the thousand, in his anger and his shame, in a cheap motel thatnight, Jack Link died.With his pistol to his forehead, Jack Link died.The trail ends in Arizona, in 1983, with a bar and bet on a bronc that he could ride.But he could not raise the thousand, in his anger and his shame, in a cheap motel thatnight, Jack Link died.With his pistol to his forehead, Jack Link died.Jack Link was the strangest fella that I have ever known.