Sequestered in aloofness, his is a lonely trail-
To no man pays he homage, in his pursuit of his grail.
His garb is Wrangler denim, Resistol on his head,
Nacona boots with wired down rowels, arena dirt do tread.
A tarnished trophy buckle which his Dad won long ago,
Was only one more reason that he chose to rodeo.
He took the high school finals way back in eighty five-
At thirty he’s a veteran of a lot of lonely drives.
The rattle and the bustle of a row of bucking chutes-
Cowboys checking riggin’s, applying spurs to boots-
“Watch him, he’s a spinner”! “He blows out, then goes right”!
The cowboys pool their knowledge, for the soon upcoming fight.
One goal he’s got, to make the top, he’ll settle for no less,
Ten head of bulls in Vegas, just to show that he’s the best.
Another faceless drifter who’s life is on the go-
His legacy is “Cowboy”, his life the rodeo.