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Yeah, he wished he was a cowboy but just at times like this

(Yup, he's glad that he's a cowboy but there's times on days like this)

When he spent the day a’horseback and had time to reminisce

(When he spends all day a'horseback thinkin', 'Wonder what I've missed?')

Never thinkin' about Monday, 'bout the real life he led

(Never knowin' if it's Monday, if he'll ever get ahead)

Just the smell of sweaty horses and the peace inside his head

(Just the smell of sweaty horses and a blanket for a bed)

How he really could'a been one if the cards had fell that way

(How he grew up punchin' cattle, had no other cards to play)

But he never had the option he had other cards to play

(So he never had the option, it was bound to be this way)

And he sees the hired-on wranglers when he passes them the reins

(And he sees the weekend cowboys when they're handin' him the reins)

And he almost wants to join 'em but his common sense refrains

(And he wonders could he make it in their life of ball and chains)

So he joins his boon companions and they toast their saddle sores

(But he joins his fellow cowboys and they do their nightly chores)

They revel in the cowboy life and forget the wrangler's chores

(Then doze off while the campfire talk drifts in from distant shores)

But by Monday they're a memory as he bills another page

(But by Monday he's back ridin' and the open smell of sage)

And forgets the car he's drivin' would've paid their yearly wage

(Reminds him he would not survive in a weekend cowboy's cage)

Baxter Black is a cowboy poet, former large-animal veterinarian and entertainer of the agricultural masses. Learn more at www.baxterblack.com.

Baxter Black