TO BE A COWBOY

So young he was when he started out,

At 16 years of age he was wandering about.

He found a decent job with a small “outfit,”

And loved every bit about it; every single bit—

The riding through the “cowtowns”

      free to holler and to hoot,

The kicking up the dust

      with his square-toed boots.

So anxious for the beer

      he had thought about before

That he didn’t even leave his horse

      to open up the door.

Just rode right through,

      those darn cowboys,

Leaving not a thing the way it was

     except for the noise.

And those sitting at a table

      were now sitting on the floor,

And where a door had once been hinged

   there was a door no more!

Yes these were true-blue cowboys

From their heads to their toes,

The things they wouldn’t do

Only God himself knows.

©   1977   Robin Johnson Baker