Of long nights at the saddleout on the road.
The puff from the dust, as you roll out of your own bed.
The texture of this ironas a break on your hand,
Fast from the leather, in your slightest control!
Sounds in the nighttime, lifting the hair on your throat,
Moon shines in the space, a faraway speck.
A faggot on the coals, generates the smallest spark,
Exposing shadows with guarantee, to stave off the shadowy.
You say words into your pony, merely to hear somebody speak!
The light of this afternoon, brings rest to your soul,
The morning has attracted, using its entrance to light,
A tin filled with java, a tug out of dried beef,
Embers expire down, time to package your bedroll,
A quiet prayer of thanksgiving, to repay your spirit!
Then up into the saddle, then you place yourself nicely,
For those hours you will traveling, will be a significant spell.
Oh the memories which whelm, out of a hat, horseshoe or nail,
Embodied through lifetimes, not will light.
A bracket of this Pony, that makes life whole,
By placing miles from you, together with his rhythmic feet.
As Cowboys who dwelt, their very own trendy sanity.