A battered old bronc saddle, and chaps which once were red-
But now from all the miles and years, theyíre faded pink instead.
My spurs are getting rusty, my boots are worn and thin-
Itís been a long, long time now, since I had my last big win.
Living from a suitcase, a fourteen year old truck-
I tell myself Iím riding, a streak of rotten luck.
The riders look like children, from my age of 44-
I canít admit Iím too old, for the rough stock anymore.
In eighty six and seven, then again in eighty nine-
I made it to the Finalís, in the standings I did shine.
I never won the big one, but, Lord, I sure come close,
The cheering from the Grandstands is the thing I miss the most.
I thought I might start drinking, but I know how that all ends-
You lose your edge, your family, and finally all your friends.
I know Iíve one more season, left in this arm of mine-
Another shot at glory Ďfore they talley up my time.
I guess Iíd better load the truck, itís time for me to go-
Last week I mailed my entries, to the Ft. Worth Livestock Show.
I hope I draw some good ones, who will score high when they buck,
Thanks for lending me your ear, and now Please wish me luck.