| G | |
| There's a | cowboy in the jungle |
| Am | |
| And he | looks so out of place |
| D | |
| With his | shrimpskin boots and his cheap cheroots |
| C | D | G | |
| And his | skin as | white as | paste |
| G | |
| Headin' south to Paraguay |
| Am | |
| Where the | Gauchos sing and shout |
| D | |
| Now he's | stuck in Porto Bello |
| C | D | G | |
| Since his | money all | ran out |
| So he (G)hangs out with the sailors |
| Night and (Am)day they're raisin' hell |
| And his (D)original destination's just another |
| Story (C)that (D)he loves(G) to tell |
| With no (G)plans for the future |
| He still (Am)seems in control |
| From a (D)bronco ride to a ten foot tide |
| He just(C) had to(D) learn to (G)roll |
| Chorus: |
| G | C | D | G | |
| Roll | with the | punches |
| C | D | G | |
| Play all | of his | hunches |
| C | G | D | |
| Make the best of | whatever came his | way |
| C | D | G | |
| What | he lacked | in ambi | tion |
| C | D | Em | |
| He made | up with | in- | tuition |
| C | D | G | |
| Plowing straight a | head come what | may |
| Steel(G) band in the distance |
| And their(Am) music floats across the bay |
| While (D)American women in moomoos |
| Talk about (C)all the (D)things they (G)did today |
| And their(G) husbands quack about fishing |
| As they slug(Am) those rum drinks down |
| Discussing who(D) caught what and who sat on his butt |
| But it's(C) the (D)only show(G) in town |
| Chorus: |
| They're (C)tryin' to (D)drink all(G) the punches |
| They all(C) may lose (D)their (G)lunches |
| Tryin'(C) to cram lost(G) years into (D)five or six days |
| Seems that(C) blind ambition(D) erased their (Em)intuition |
| Plowin'(C) straight(D) ahead come (G)what may |
| Refrain: |
| Am | C | G | |
| But | I don't want to | live on that kind of is | land |
| Am | C | G | |
| No I | don't want to | swim in a roped off | sea |
| Em | A7 | |
| Too much for | me, too much for | me |
| C | D | G | |
| I've | got to be where the | wind and the water are | free |
| Alone on a midnight passage |
| I can count the falling stars |
| While the Southern Cross and the satellites |
| They remind me of where we are |
| Spinning around in circles |
| Living it day to day |
| And still twenty four hours may be sixty good years |
| It's still not that long a stay |
| Chorus: |
| We've gotta roll with the punches |
| Learn to play all of our hunches |
| Makin' the best of whatever comes your way |
| Forget that blind ambition |
| And learn to trust your intuition |
| Plowin' straight ahead come what may |
| D | C | G | |
| And there's a | cowboy | in the | jungle |