Jackpine Cowboy

He will need no hand tolled saddle

Blanket roll to make his bed,

Inlaid bit or plaited bridle

On a pinto pony's head.

Steel upon his heels he'll need not

Wide brimmed hat or shirt of red,

He will never haze the trail herd

On a cold and hungry ride,

Or go riding through the blizzard

To the bush where strays do hide.

Cook his meal upon a campfire
Bacon in a skillet friend.

He will never stake his earnings

On a lone draw poker hand,

Sit with other wanderers yarning

Drinking whiskey from a glass,

Caring not what comes tomorrow

As the days and seasons pass.

So I rode away from Westwold

At the breaking of the day,

Heading up the river canyon

Way out one eleven way,

Just another aimless wanderer

Little caring come what may.