The jingle of spurs, and the smell of old leather-
His saddle a creakin’, the sun beating down..
Eyes set in crow’s feet, face lined and weathered,
Hands rough and calloused, his face saddle brown.
Legs which are bowed now, from years in the saddle-
Tattered old talley book, stuffed in his jeans.
He measures his wealth in his friends and his mem’ries-
Who still ride beside him, at night in his dreams.
Born in West Texas, sometimes in the forties-
He’s handled wild cattle, and wild, rougher men-
He never drew wages, or worked for an outfit-
That wouldn’t be tickled to hire him again.
He’s had several friends, and he’s loved a few women-
Back in the sixties he took him a wife...
Then lasted four years, then she left for the city,
She wasn’t cut out for that Cowboy life.
Don’t pity him, stranger. He’s livin’ the good life-
Hard work and loneliness, part of God’s plan-
Don’t call him a loser, he’s holding all aces,
He’s proud to be known, as a “Working Cowhand”.