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Hank rested his boots on the railin' of the bunkhouse when day was done.
The pointy-toes of his scruffy boots framed the slowly settin' sun.
He leaned back in his rockin' chair, his hands embracin' the back of his nape,
Contemplatin' his tattered boots, (tho' they was still in purty good shape!)

He paid ten bucks fer 'em at a Sears Roebuck store twelve years er so ago.
Hank wanted Tony Romo boots but cowpokes don't make that kinda dough.
He was mighty proud of them boots, just 'bout the purtiest he'd ever seen!
He broke 'em in astraddle his faithful mule, Old Dan, on the trail to Abilene.

Back on the ranch he wore 'em fixin' fences and brandin' wily steers.
Hank rodeoed, throwed from buckin' hosses to his pards roarin' jeers!
The boots made good pillers when sleepin' 'neath the starry skies.
He'd shake 'em good to dispose of scorpions when at dawn he'd rise!

He fixed a pair of silver spurs to the boots, of them he was mighty pleased.
Hank spent hours polishin', buffin' and keepin' them babies greased!
When paid his meager pay he'd scrape manure off'n them to seek romance.
Hoppin' in his Ford 150, headin' fer Clyde's Saloon fer Saturday night's dance!

Time moved on inexorably and the boots became marred and battered.
Them old boots, Old Dan and cowboyin', to Hank was all that mattered.
He told his pards, "Boys, I ain't askin' much, but ya'll promise without fail,
That you'll bury me with them boots on when I come to the end of the trail".

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