hey, what are you doin there mister
yeah you, standin in that space
leanin there in your stetson
lookin about this place
do ya think that you fit in here
why did you even stop in?
to hang out with real cowboys?
to see how the other half lives?
your boots are probably Lucchese
they look like they cost you alot
look around here buddy
that’s something we ain’t got
standin there against the bar
a long neck in your hand
lookin at all our cowgirls
listenin to our cowboy band
your hand made shirt is perfect
those jeans are probably Gucci
we’re lookin at you in our Wranglers
thinkin you are quit the fool
no one will approach you
don’t ya feel kind of strange?
you ain’t got no friends here
it’s like you dropped from outer space
sure, the cowgirls are lookin at ya
never seen one like you
but they know you’ll only use em
and toss em when you’re through
before startin somethin you can’t finish
I think that you should guzzle that beer
drink it down, stop lookin around
and mosey on out of here
Poetry by
M.J.B. is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
