Star Of The Roundup
A cowboy’s life’s not easy,
as he rides across the range.
His bed roll on the saddle;
his spurs, they bang and clang.
A campfire is his cook stove;
the stars above, his map.
A star of the old roundup,
he has to move his cows along.
He won’t be fired from any job;
he’ll ride the long, long path.
Spurred along with thoughts of pay;
saddled with a heavy task.
With the saddle as his pillow,
‘neath a million stars above;
His spurs are quiet for the night;
the cows, they’ll graze and rest.
Tomorrow he will ride again;
beneath old Sol’s scorching rays.
The desert fire, it parches;
a filled canteen’s on the saddle horn.
He rides across the dry, cracked sands;
and sleeps under flickering stars.
Every cow, he will deliver;
now, spurred by nature’s demands.
His clinking, clanking boot spurs,
kick out to smother the fire.
Rounding up the cows again,
he mounts his saddled steed.
Again he’ll be a roundup star,
herding cattle across the range.
He’ll ride into the market,
with spurs jingling, he’ll dismount.
Roundup star will collect his pay
and fire up a cigarette.
With saddle bags across his shoulder;
a well-earned bath and sleep, he’ll get.
He’ll ride back home, the lanky roundup star.
Spurs quiet in the saddle; he’s bought a new guitar.
Sitting by the campfire, cowboy takes some time to play.
Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2018