Too Quiet For The Cowboys

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.