“Last of the Breed”
Thirty six years of hard labor-
And nothing to show for it all.
A wife and three kids who don't know him,
He's crippled from many a fall.
He used to be tall, lean, and handsome-
But middle age spread has set in,
He has no companion or lover-
He's outlived most all of his friends.
I guess that his brand read's "West Texas".
He'll turn fifty-one, first of May.
Foot-loose, a drifter, a throwback-
To the West and her wild, wooley days.
He hung up his spurs back in eighty-
When injuries made him to slow-
To make a good ride on the rough-stock,
That he rode in the Pro Rodeo.
Out back of the chutes you'll still find him,
With advice that the young ones won't heed.
It's more than a life it's a callin'-
And he's the last of the vanishing breed.