No
clopping horses or ladies to the nines,
No
corner saloon, or chop houses to dine,
Not
dressed up to go to meeting,
No
bear hugs or back-slap greeting.
The
boardwalk is oddly without noise,
Sundays
are too quiet for the boys.
Moon
rises, dudes thirst for what’s not water,
Heading
for places you wouldn’t send your daughter.
Lace
and taffeta revealing leg and thigh,
Many
are the barmaids, few customers are nigh.
Oh
coquettish sway, each move, she cloys,
The
bars’ too quiet for the boys.
The
dust and smells, Old Garth lists well, make your blood run hot,
No
cowboy competition, the Fairgrounds an empty lot.
No
lassos sailing over calves, no sequined girls waving flags,
Hand
loosed from the saddle, saved by wags.
Not
just weekend showmen, they’re the real McCoys,
Rodeo’s
hushed and gone too quiet for the boys.
Aspens
white and dark-green pine down the trail a-ways,
Water’s
flowing hear it roaring like the waves.
There’s
a quiet and a speaking heard in Gods wide open space,
So
you can keep a going; take a step, run the race.
The
wildness of life brings these many joys,
But
its gone too quiet for the boys.
