The Last Real Cowboy

A quiet little barroom in a little nameless town

Nowhere to go and time to kill, I suck a cold beer down

A old cowpoke ambles in the door and slowly looks around

There’s just a bartender and me so he says, “I’ll buy a round”

He saunters slowly across the floor, both bowlegged and pigeon toed

His legs still hold the memory of every horse he ever  rode

I thank him kindly for the beer as he sits down at the bar

He asks about my rig outside and have I come very far

We sit and talk for hours and he tells me about the range

He tells me about the cowboy life and the many things that have changed

He says there are no real cowboys now riding for the brand

He talks about the life he had and makes it sound so grand

He talks about the dusty trails and about some barroom fights

About rounding up the cattle and riding herd all night

He tells me about the rustlers and his old Colt forty-four

Now it hangs on a wall at home, he don’t pack a gun no more

I told him about the trucking life and the long lonely roads

The many places I had been and the many heavy loads

Finally he got up to leave and I stood to have my say

I said, “There is one real cowboy left, I just met him today”

He slowly turned and looked at me, grinned and shook my hand

Said, “I’d be proud to have a man like you working for our brand”

Now I’ve been back there many times, across that barroom floor

I never met my friend again, he doesn’t come there any more

You see he’s up there riding on the big range in the sky

Now there are no real cowboys left, the last of them has died.