The Posh, English Cowboy

He made his way across the pond when he was twenty-three, an upper-crust Brit who even spoke the finest, English R.P. His name was Albert Framingham, but to all the people here, he’s the posh, English cowboy, and lord, he knows no fear! The first time he ever rode, he fell off seven times, got to the point that half the town started rolling their eyes. But Albert was something special, a true, determined man, and before two months was up he’d been hired as a hand. Ride, Albert, ride, you magnificent bastard. Ride, Albert, ride, ride out and cut that herd! He soon got a reputation for never once getting tired, he’d ride for days across the mountains, that boy was cut from iron. Though he liked a spot of tea, he still went out every night, with his pards to Randy’s Bar, and drank everything in sight. He soon had himself some sweethearts, three in just one small town, and in truest cowboy fashion, not one could rope him down. He had himself a wool slouch hat, and tall boots for riding, God forbid you ever lie to him, he sure was cross when mean. Ride, Albert, ride, young man of steely nerves, Ride, Albert, ride, ride round-up with the herd! One day he decided he would try the local circuit rodeo, roping he knew, the rest he figured he would learn on the go. His first time one a bronc lasted a mere second or two, but by the end of the season, he rode eighteen seconds through. His parents once visited him, and could not understand why their son sat by a fire, eating beans from a can. He’d gone to prestigious schools, earned himself high degrees, Albert shrugged, saying,”Mother, this is what makes me happy.” Ride, Albert, ride, to the life that you deserve, Ride, Albert, ride, the greatest of cowherds!