The boots are scuffed and layered with dust,
The Colt pistols oiled, with no sign of rust;
The spurs are tarnished, the straps wearing thin;
And his stampede strap is pulled tight to his chin.
The gunbelt and holsters have faded with age,
Tooled with scratches from miles of sage;
He constantly squints from days in the sun,
And he’s known, sometimes, to be good with a gun.
A bag of Bull Durham is tucked in his vest,
And a huge red bandana covers his chest;
His roping cuffs have softened with wear;
His quirt is made from braided horsehair.
The chaps are blackened from a thousand fires,
The leather gloves snagged and torn by wire.
His old pants are wearing out in the seat,
And the threadbare shirt is just right for the heat.
The Winchester’s stock has long lost its sheen,
But its action is smooth and impeccably clean;
His shotgun is never far from his side,
Its two nickeled barrels carried with pride.
His duster protects him from winds ‘cross the plain,
A faithful, worn cowboy hat fights sun and rain;
As he rides the prairies his heart knows the joy
Of the freedom and spirit that make a Cowboy.
Green River, Wyoming