A bunch of old cowboys are making their noise. At the rodeos across the land. They're all over forty but let me tell you Lordy. They're still tough rodeo hands.
He's a rodeo hand a dyin' breed driftin' like a tumble weed. Rollin' where the urge tells him to go. And all a cowboy really needs is a tank of gas and entry fees.
Sometimes this old road. Gets so damn lonesome away from home. Ain't no way in sight, head on back. . Nobody knows the way it feels. Suffer through this living hell.
On a highway through the desert beneath an overpass. Sat two hikers just watchin' cars go by. Now one was wearin' sandles with straggly matted hair. Rose colored glasses for his eyes.
I've rode lots of horses and I've won a few shows. Ridin' broncs at the big old rodeos. But the dang-dest contraption that I've ever seen. Is that bucket of bots called a bucking machine.