You'd laugh to see that old cowboy as he rises for his day,
his run down boots, and dirty hat, still sore from yesterday.
His wranglers are not pressed and clean, got holes in both the knees,
you may think he looks funny, but he's where he wants to be.
He won't spend half his mornin sittin in some traffic jam,
to get him to a job he hates, for a check and benefit plan.
But he'll never try to convince you that he has a better way,
cause what you think don't matter none, he thinks his work is play.
His day is feedin cows and such and workin that new horse,
while yours is having meetings where you sit there and be bored.
He's fixin that broken pasture fence, and all those other chores,
while you just dream of quitting time, while staring at the floor.
His day won't end at five o'clock, cause he don't watch no clock,
but you get home so stressed you need to run around the block.
What he does each day you won't find written in a business plan,
he's just carin for his livestock, being steward of his land.
What you can't see is what he feels, his pride in what he does,
that easy peaceful feeling as he watches the setting sun.
It's quittin early Friday night, for the high school football game,
It's wakin up to the roosters crow, good coffee to start the day.
It's horses and it's saddles, it's workin in the hay,
it's lookin out on the land thinkin, that belongs to me.
Don't ask him why he lives this way, and expect him to reply,
cause he don't know no other way, and he don't care to try.
You might say he's crazy and just don't want to admit it,
he knows if you weren't born a cowboy, then you'll never, never get it.
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