The cowboy sits under the star soaked sky.
His beard grey, his face wrinkled, his mouth dry.
The fire lights up his weathered, old face,
But his eyes remain hollow, a disgrace.
His features corroded by life long work,
Withered away by the sand, the heat, the dirt.
He sits there, wondering what will become,
Of the way of life he’s known since he was young.
He sees those young fools each and every day,
Naive and stupid, with too much to say.
The West is abundant with life, one spouts,
But as the kid starts his car, the cowboy doubts.
Hope’s a fleeting thing, this day and age.
The walls of the city enclose like a cage.
The fools don’t see it, or they’re in denial,
As the ways of the past yield to barbed wire.
Tough was the cowboy, a rider in his youth,
And years of experience have taught him the truth.
The West is a spirit, brave, free and wild,
But ‘fore too long, it’ll suffer a fate most mild.
The cowboy has ridden throughout his life,