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He awoke in the silence of another new day,
wondering what's going on.
A trip to the Chuck-wagon for breakfast,
if he waited the coffee'd be gone.
He squinted with age, in the smell of the sage,
as he saw to his tack and his rope.
He'd slept in his spurs,including the burrs,
some thought he was some kind of a dope.
He'd been riding the range,not looking for change,
but he knew that it's coming on.
He'd be looking for work,
the kind that he'd shirked,
in a town or a city afore long.
He hurt in the cold,a sign he was old,
and of to many trips to the ground.
As of late he'd been looking for friendship,
and a Dog would be nice to have 'round.
He'd kinda slowed,and his legs they were bowed,
and there was no tan on the top of his head.
A Hat he had worn near since the day he was born,
and probably would till he's dead.
Old Cowboys are the stuff of legends,and there's not many
left hanging around.
But the Wild West will live on in their presence,
till the very last one is put down.
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