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The dust has long since settled, his work has been done;
No more lonely campfires, no rides into setting sun.
All cattle have been rounded up, no ponies left to break;
No open ranges left to fence, no drought from sparkling lake.

”Drugstore Cowboys” roam the streets, and western tunes abound;
Yet throughout this great nation, can one true cowboy be found?
The kind of man who tamed his land, and fought off Indians too;
The kind who grew to love the land, and whose word was true?

Bronc riding was no game, and calf roping was how they earned their pay;
They didn’t perform like actors in some “made for Broadway” play.
A rope lasso was their tool, and not for doing tricks;
They didn’t care that city folk thought they were just hicks.

Deals were sealed with handshakes, no need for paper and pen;
A man who broke his word was considered less than a man back then.
Their work was hard, from before sunup till after dark most days;
Their world was cut and dried, black and white, not grays.

Men were strong and laws were weak, yet justice was swift and sure;
Cowboys solved their own problems, you see, they had a cinch cure.
A rope necktie would do the job, or a pistol  clearing leather;
And if the offense was minor, there was always tar and feather.

It’s sad to say, but it seems to me, the time has come to pass;
The cowboy way is over, like the bison who roamed the grass.
Now cowboy rodeos are held, to put their skills on display;
But where were the rodeo clowns, when the real cowboys had their day?


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The Cowboy Way