Dedicated to Pete Bowling
The Old Cowboy
by denny
His legs were bowed, his back was bent,
and his skin was leather brown.
No one knew how old he was,
seems he'd always been around.
His hands were scarred, his fingers gnarled
from hard work all these years.
Yet he always had a kindly word
whenever folks came near.
No poet he, few words he spoke,
but when he did, you listened.
And when he gave that knowing smile,
Oh! how his old eyes glistened.
They say he’s the last of a dying breed
of those who tamed the west.
And soon his days will be no more
as he rides to join the rest.
Under star-lit western skies
which have always been his home,
he’ll ride into one last sunset
and there forever roam.
and his skin was leather brown.
No one knew how old he was,
seems he'd always been around.
His hands were scarred, his fingers gnarled
from hard work all these years.
Yet he always had a kindly word
whenever folks came near.
No poet he, few words he spoke,
but when he did, you listened.
And when he gave that knowing smile,
Oh! how his old eyes glistened.
They say he’s the last of a dying breed
of those who tamed the west.
And soon his days will be no more
as he rides to join the rest.
Under star-lit western skies
which have always been his home,
he’ll ride into one last sunset
and there forever roam.
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