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Poem	There is some that likes the city-- Grass that's curried smooth and green, Theaytres and stranglin' collars, Wagons run by gasoline-- But for me it's hawse and saddle Every day without a change, And a desert sun a-blazin' On a hundred miles of range. _Just a-ridin', a-ridin'--_ _Desert ripplin' in the sun,_ _Mountains blue along the skyline--_ _I don't envy anyone_ _When I'm ridin'._ When my feet is in the stirrups And my hawse is on the bust, With his hoofs a-flashin' lightnin' From a cloud of golden dust, And the bawlin' of the cattle Is a-coming' down the wind Then a finer life than ridin' Would be mighty hard to find. _Just a-ridin, a-ridin'--_ _Splittin' long cracks through the air,_ _Stirrin' up a baby cyclone,_ _Rippin' up the prickly pear_ _As I'm ridin'._ I don't need no art exhibits When the sunset does her best, Paintin' everlastin' glory On the mountains to the west And your opery looks foolish When the night-bird starts his tune And the desert's silver mounted By the touches of the moon. _Just a-ridin', a-ridin',_ _Who kin envy kings and czars_ _When the coyotes down the valley_ _Are a-singin' to the stars,_ _If he's ridin'?_ When my earthly trail is ended And my final bacon curled And the last great roundup's finished At the Home Ranch of the world I don't want no harps nor haloes, Robes nor other dressed up things-- Let me ride the starry ranges On a pinto hawse with wings! _Just a-ridin', a-ridin'--_ _Nothin' I'd like half so well_ _As a-roundin' up the sinners_ _That have wandered out of Hell,_ _And a-ridin'._
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