Wishin' I Was a Real Cowboy

I am not quite a genuine cowboy, but I know that somewhere deep down inside. If I had only been born way back when, I could surely punch cows, rope, brand and ride. I always wanted to be a cowhand, oh, what a glorious life that would be. Riding along with the herd cross the land, living a life that was simple and free. I'd rise before the sun started to shine, ride all day under the sweltering heat. Fifteen hours a day for nearly no pay, just a biscuit and a few beans to eat. I could help a thousand head to birth calves, with a cold wind blowin' rain down my back. Or ride along a thousand miles of fence, spend a winter in a leaky line shack. When on a drive and "breakin' day" gets called, though I was froze stiff, wet, muddy and damp. I'd roll out of bed to stretch these old bones, they would hear the popping clear cross the camp. I s'pose that now I think hard about it, maybe cowboyin' just ain't quite right for me. Perhaps I'll stay here in my writer's room, riding the range through cowboy poetry.