The Cowboy and the West

The cowboy sits under the star soaked sky.

His beard grey, his face wrinkled, his mouth dry.

The fire lights up his weathered, old face,

But his eyes remain hollow, a disgrace.

His features corroded by life long work,

Withered away by the sand, the heat, the dirt.

He sits there, wondering what will become,

Of the way of life he’s known since he was young.



He sees those young fools each and every day,

Naive and stupid, with too much to say.

The West is abundant with life, one spouts,

But as the kid starts his car, the cowboy doubts.

Hope’s a fleeting thing, this day and age.

The walls of the city enclose like a cage.

The fools don’t see it, or they’re in denial,

As the ways of the past yield to barbed wire.



Tough was the cowboy, a rider in his youth,

And years of experience have taught him the truth.

The West is a spirit, brave, free and wild,

But ‘fore too long, it’ll suffer a fate most mild.

The cowboy has ridden throughout his life,

Driving cattle ‘cross plains riddled with strife.

He embodies the West, a Cowboy true,

But the West is dying, and the Cowboy too.



It is a slow death, but a death no doubt.

One grows old, the other smothered out.

The source of their ire is one and the same,

But there is no cure for a horse gone lame.

So the Cowboy sits there, waxing nostalgic.

While the government intrudes with their lawful gimmick.

The frontier is no more, a disheartening fact.

The West’s life source taken, it lies on its back.



The West used to be about Adventure,

Now its hold weakens, ending its tenure.

The West used to be about Freedom,

Now it has laws, and men to enforce ‘em.

The West used to be about a New Start,

Now that window closes, threatening its heart.

The West used to be about Prospect

Now it lays there, starving from neglect.



The Cowboy’s no different, his health fading,

Age grips his tired mind, his heart failing.

He can feel it in his bones each time he moves.

His face is hollow, deep set with grooves.

The thought of mortality is a crippling vice,

But he won’t run from it like packs of sick mice.

He does not embrace death, but nor does he fear it.

The hope of Heaven’s gate lifts his spirit.



Perhaps, he ponders, the West will live on too.

Maybe Cowboys like him will keep doing what they do.

Alas, he notes, it will never be the same.

There’s still no cure for a horse that is lame.

But perhaps it will evolve, change and flourish,

With young minds comes hope that can nourish.

The Cowboy knows the West may fall like Babylon,

But he holds on to the faith that it will live on.