|
The Open Book
I've been tamped full of shit about cowboys, they're widely known as a romantic band.
Bold knights of the saddle, they round up wild cattle, they can roll a cigarette with one hand.
Now according to movies and fiction, he's a sheik in a ten gallon hat.
But all he knows of romance is the crotch of his pants, and what do you think about that.
Now you take the boy from old California, he's known as the old native son
He's just a half-ass vaquero without no dinero, but he's no worse than the general run.
He's cross between greaser and gringo, produced by the whore in the mine.
He's a renegade breed that went plum to seed, since the Gold Rush of old '49
There's a never-sweat out in Nevada, widely known as the son of the sage.
He's an ornery old fart and a cow thief at heart, he's a throwback to some ancient age.
He sponsors a centerfire saddle, his brain has a chronic limp,
He's just a two-bit card rustler, and a bowlegged cunt hustler, widely known as the lunch-bucket pimp.
You take the boy from old Arizona, the son of the old Sacatone
He's an ornery old critter and a famous bullshiter, He's the sorriest seed ever sown.
He's bothered by Mexican heartburn, protruding piles and gleet,
A redhot tamale is right down his alley, it's a diet his asshole can't beat.
Now you've heard of the Panhandle hairpin, widely known by the moniker Tex.
He's a son-of-a-bitch with a bad trigger itch, and a big Bowie knife complex.
At heart he's an unpaid policeman, he'll talk of the tight spots he's been in,
But his gun hand will cramp and his powder go damp, when he draws near a cotton gin.
Now there's a greaser down in Chihauhau, and thinks he's a cowboy too.
He cusses the gringo in his Mexican lingo, and that's about all he can do.
He sponsors a rawhide riata, and straddles a silver trimmed rig.
He's a renegade chump the result of a hump, twixt a Yaqui, a Spaniard, and a jig.
There's a flute blower out in Dakota, he's a liar at heart and what's more.
He's a song singin' Sooner, a guitar pickin' crooner, he's worthless as tits on a boar.
His tongue is diseased with diarrhea, the half-breed gut-eating tramp.
He knows more of plows than he savies the cows, he was born with his ass in a cramp.
You take the clipcock from cool Colorado, where Pike's Peak ponders and broods.
The miners, the muckers, the filthy cocksuckers, his racket is wrangling dudes.
He sponsors a double rigged saddle, his gift is a gift of gab.
With his teeth in his ass and his rope made of grass, all he can catch is a cab.
There's a whistle-prick out in old Utah, he was sired by old frig'em Young.
He's a sop-suckin' sizzler and a cunt-cheatin' chiseler, of the barrel he's only the bung.
He's known as the crying jack-Mormon, his religion is guzzling the booze.
He's got the round ass, he can't ride nor last, he'd give a sad jackass the blues.
Be him Oregon mister or Canadian twister, they're just sons-of-bitches at best.
Some come from the Canadian Rockies, and some from the Texas Plains.
And don't it beat Hell, the way you can tell, where each learned to tighten his reins.
All and all they're a mixed bunch of bastards, of that there can be little doubt.
For each sorry hand wears the mark and the brand, of the country that had him run out.
Here's to the rodeo cowboy, the worst of the whole sorry lot.
For he makes his best rides when he's filled his insides,
On whiskey that someone else has bought.
[Brian Morris]
And just so you won't die of wonderin', an old native son's what I am.
But I've tried to say in a legible way, that cowboys ain't worth a goddamn.
Email: gstanton@umw.edu
|