Cowboy

It’s all in the song,
how often he longs,
for bright starry nights,
to provide the light.

Moving on horseback,
few clothes in a sack,
he crosses prairies,
he never marries.

He was born a cowboy,
handguns were his toys,
horses were his friends,
childhood to the end.

Fun is riding bulls,
roping calves to pull,
always on the move,
with nothing to prove.

A guitar in hand,
he lives off the land,
building a campfire,
mending a wire.

Roughness is his name,
gentle when calf’s lame,
resisting limits,
free as time permits.

Do you hear him sing?
Loud melodies ring,
downing a few beers,
never knowing fear.