The Cowboy

[couchgrouch]

The CowboyThe hoofbeats of his old mare, sounded like the drums of fateas that cowboy rode toward Bisbee, 'longside a state highwaythey wouldn't make the rodeo, next week in Cheyennehe hoped his only mistress, would somehow understandhe could've sold her in Yuma, hopped a bus or a trainthen truckers wouldn't have cursed, when she crossed the interstatebut that cowboy and his brown mare, had lived through wolves and stormsso she had to be his vessel, back where he was bornhis leather hat was a faithful roofafter round-ups he stunk of hunnerd proofbut he never used a spur or a whipkept her sugarcubes in a pouch on his hipas a boy in El Paso his heart had been lassoedby the freedom of the rangebronco scars were his brand fancy trucks on the ranchbut changing times be damnedthat cowboy'd never changehis saddle was the only pew, in his fav'rite churchhe prayed then patted her goodbye, and lay in grove of birchhe'd reached his destination, a quiet spot near his hometownand the crossroads of creation, is the cold, cold groundso now that sad old mare, turned for the Rio Grandewhere she was pulled from her mother, by that cowboy's gentle handif heaven and truckers saw fit, she'd soon reach her homelandthen she could meet that cowboy, for the rodeo in Cheyennecos his leather hat was a faithful roofafter round-ups he stunk of hunnerd proofbut he never used a spur or a whipkept her sugarcubes in a pouch on hs hipas a boy in El Paso his heart had been lassoedby the freedom of the rangebronco scars were his brand fancy trucks on the ranchbut changing times be damnedthat cowboy'd never changethat cowboy'd never changethat cowboy's never change(c)2006 Robert George