A cowboy I was certainly not,
but I figured I could easily be taught.
So I headed out West
with my new chaps and vest
and a saddle that I had just bought.

As for horses I’d ridden a few,
and I thought I knew what to do.
I could saddle and lope,
and I almost could rope,
cause I’d tried it a time or two.

I’d lifted a hay bale with hooks,
and I knew how a cowboy looks.
I could give a discourse
on the parts of a horse
though I’d learned most of it from books.

It was a Sunday in the middle of May
when I arrived at the ranch that first day.
And much to my horror
I walked through the door
and saw where I had to stay.

The bunkhouse was littered and stunk
from varmints like marmots and skunk.
They certainly did spoil it,
those two rooms and toilet,
where seven buckaroos had to bunk.

Quite soon I met all my peers
and I exceeded them greatly in years.
They were young, lean and tough
and saw right through my bluff
I had gray hairs growing out of my ears.

But they’d not seen me riding the trail.
My years would surely prevail.
Except that my pride
bit the dust that first ride
when my horse threw me off on my tail.

Still, friends we all soon became
because we were really the same.
Our goal there out West
was to do our danged best
At playing the cowboy game.

So once I’d allayed all my fears
about horses, wranglers and steers,
I enjoyed my new life
like a mail order wife.
It was my best time in 51 years.

Now I put this advice on your plate.
Your fantasy can be your fate.
For a burning desire
to be what you aspire,
If you really want to, don’t wait.