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An Old and Wrinkled Cowboy

He was an old and wrinkled cowboy,
He had a swagger to his walk;
His squinted eyes were bloodshot,
There was slurring to his talk.

And though his life had somehow drifted
From our straight and narrow track,
He would smile at me and shake his head
When I slapped his dusty back.

And he’d tell me some old story
He had told me twice before;
And I’d laugh again to please him,
And he’d tell a couple more.

And when he died he left no mark in life,
He left his tab at the saloon;
No monument now marks his grave,
No son will sing his tune.

‘Cause in this life he chose a cameo part,
His was just a character role;
He was like some dash of seasoning
To more complete the whole.

And though he sat no great example,
For there were nobler to be found;
How I loved that wrinkled cowboy,
He was just fun to be around.

Picture of Wes Stephenson

Wes Stephenson

Author, motorcyclist, poet, and adventurer. Let's journey together.

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