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.
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