The Cowboy

His legs were bowed,
He limped when he walked,
The years of hard riding were evident.
His scuffed up boots,
Clicked on the hard red clay,
With each labored step.
His treasured belt buckle from the PBR,
Like him once new and shining like a star,
Now old, used, and forgotten.
His worn out hat—a symbol of his life,
The turkey feather given for bravery,
And the guardian angel pin from a real special lady.
His sun narrowed eyes,
So cold and so blue,
Remembering many a hard time.
From bulls to broncs,
There’s nothing he hasn’t been on the back of,
When that eight second bell sounded.
Bones he has broken,
And broncs he has busted,
His body laden with scars.
But each time he fell off,
He’d get right back up on,
And give it another go round.
With all of the concussions,
And all of the pains,
There’s one still that hasn’t healed.
His heart had been broken,
Along with his legs,
At a rodeo in Santa Fe.
So next time you see a cowboy,
With a hobble in his step,
And that hat pulled way down low.
Know that it wasn’t the rodeo,
But a beautiful lady,
That made that cowboy that way.