Poetry Archives

I am a busted cowboy
   And I work upon the range,
In summertime I get some work,
   But one thing which seems strange,
As soon as fall work’s over
   I get it in the neck
I get a Christmas present
   Of a neatly written check.

I come to town to rusticate,
   I’ve no place else to stay
When winter winds are howling hard
   Because I don’t eat hay.
A puncher’s life’s a picnic?
   It is one continual joke.
But there’s none more anxious to see spring
   Than the cowboy who is broke.

The wages that a cowhand earns
   In summer goes like smoke,
And when the snow begins to drift
   You bet your neck he’s broke.
You may talk about your holidays,
   Your Christmas cheer and joy,
They’re all the same to me, my friend.
   Cash gone, I’m a broke cowboy.

My saddle and my gun in soak,
   My spurs I’ve long since sold,
My rawhide and my quirt are gone,
   My chaps, no. They’re too old.
My outfit’s gone, I can’t e’en bum
  A cigarette to smoke.
For no one cares what happens
  To a cowboy who is broke.

Just where I’ll eat my dinner
   This Christmas, I don’t know,
But you can bet your life I’ll have one
   If I get but half a show.
This Christmas holds no charms for me,
   On good things I’ll not choke,
Unless I get a big handout
   I’m a cowboy who is broke.