The Cowboy That Never Rode Home

In the palo verde and black chaparral lies, A cross by an empty grave where no one cries. It notes the lonely death of a man named Chance Roam— Just a proud young cowboy that never rode home. Far on a sparse hill it cuts the sky like a lance— That pale, nearly white cross with just the name ‘Chance.’ He used to ride those hills and echo each valley, Before he rode to war to make us all free. Yes, his country called, like it had many before, And he gladly went off to fight in that war. There were no questions asked, no concern for the cost— If none volunteered, our country would be lost. Then one day the dreaded letter came, edged in black— And we knew then, that he would never come back. Be it rancher or mere clerk – all went off to war— And while most returned – some would be seen no more. And long before there was a Memorial Day— Our young men died for our American way— From wars of revolution to wars of the world— All of our soldiers fought with our flag unfurled. There are bright jade prairies of gray and white crosses, That recount endless wars and many losses— Now in meadows bloom reminders on each plain, Marking names of those who have not died in vain. In the palo verde and black chaparral lies, A cross by an empty grave where no one cries. It notes the lonely death of a man named Chance Roam— Just a proud young cowboy that never rode home. .