Cowboys are special with their own brand of misery,
From being alone too long.
You could die from the cold in the arms of a nightmare,
Knowin' well your best days are gone.
Pickin' up hookers instead of my pen,
I let the words of my years fade away.
Old worn-out saddles, an 'old worn-out memories,
With no one and no place to stay.
My heroes have always been cowboys.
And they still are, it seems.
Sadly, in search of, but one step in back of,
Themselves and their slow-movin' dreams.