Cowboys

They ride the range with horse and gun Their backs are bent, their heads held low; Their faces burnished from the sun, They travel with wild winds that blow. They go so fast with rope lasso, To catch a cow that lopes alone; They search the sky and kiss the dew, The great wide earth they call their home. Around a campfire they all feast, On beans and bread they share; With stories to tell more than the least, They make their camp just anywhere. Throughout the night they tell their tales, Of hopes and memories from back home; They pitch their tent among the vales, To rest their heads so sleep will come. Man with horse cannot be tamed. They do not follow the host of rules; The lives they live cannot be framed, For they scorn the life of quiet fools.