Sittin’ in a motel, outside of Abilene,
Entered in tomorrow’s rodeo.
Three days here, then Brownwood, and then to Sulphur Springs…
It seems like I am always on the go.
Thirty-two last August, and feelin’ sixty-five.
Fourteen years I’ve been out on the road.
All I do is draw three head, and drive, and drive, and drive.
And six times out of ten, now, I get throwed.
It seems I’m held together by yards and yards of tape.
It hurts to breathe, and even worse to walk.
I guess I’ve broken everything, a body has to break…
And Mister, you can bet that ain’t just talk.
They say I’m getting’ too old, to ride them Brahma bulls.
I guess that’s what you tried to tell me, too.
I don’t mind the pain so much, from gettin’ throwed and stomped-
But, baby, I still hurt from losing you.
You said that I should grow up, stop going down the road-
I told you how it was the day we met.
You told me that was alright, you’d love to tag along…
It didn’t take you long, dear, to forget.
I don’t really blame you, for telling me goodbye…
This ain’t no life for them that want a home.
This is the life that suits me, and I can’t tell you why-
I guess I’m just the kind that has to roam.
I don’t know why I bother, writin’ you these notes…
Like all the others, this one won’t be mailed.
I haven’t sent a letter, since you said, “That’s all she wrote”.
I just write to try and find out where I failed.