“Cheyenne, or Bust”
My Levi's are patched, there are holes in my boots-
My shirt's faded denim, I've West Texas roots.
My hat's slick and shiny, from rain, sweat, and dust
With my bedroll and saddle, it's Cheyenne, or Bust!
My wife used to tell me, "This road is too hard.
John, you're getting older, you're broke up and scarred.
I'm sure tired of sitting, here by the phone-
Awaiting the call that tells me you're gone.
You said when we married, you'd make lots of dough-
Riding the rough stock at the rodeo.
But then you were twenty, now you're forty five-
It's a wonder to me, hon, that you're still alive."
You told me last spring, when I packed up to go-
"Make up your mind, it's me or the show."
I gave you my word that I'd quit in the fall-
You said, "It don't matter, that ended it all."
I drawed up real bad down in old San Antone-
That bull up in Dallas broke two of my bones.
Then I lost a stirrup out there in Mesquite-
With the ride looking good, and the hoss buckin' sweet.
I broke down in Austin, and left my old truck-
I'm headed for Cheyenne, and hoping for luck.
And a big wad of paper, with "In God We Trust."
With hope in my heart- it's Cheyenne or Bust.