Cowboy life is dyin’,
you can see it more an’ more—
his clothes are never dirty,
an’ he don’t git saddle sore.

His jeans have got a real nice crease,
no sweat-stain on his hat,
he don’t hangout in barrooms,
an’ he’s mostly growin’ fat.

He seldom enters rodeos,
or crosses prairies far an’ wide,
but you can bet top dollar,
he’s got a cell phone by his side.

I wonder who’d be callin’—
his boss about a storm,
or a gal he met in town last week
wantin’ him to keep her warm?

Or maybe ‘bout the calvin’
that starts in early spring,
or could it be the brandin’
why they’re givin’ him a ring?

I doubt it’s ‘bout those pack-mules
he should ready by the fall,
or mendin’ fence, an’ ridin’ herd,
or muckin’ out some stalls.

An’ if he has to load a bull 
to drive to the next town,
it’ll be in that new Chevy truck
with a diesel engine sound.

Most don’t chew tabaccy,
or learn quite how to spit,
but he can use that cell phone,
an’ check his e-mail for a hit.

I hate to see it happen—
cowboys gettin’ kinda soft,
no more sleepin’ ‘neath the stars,
but in a cabin—with a loft!

I don’t wanna hear these cowboys say,
“It sure ain’t like it used to,”
when every time I see one,
his cell’s stuck to him like glue.

The only cowboy history
will be written in these lines.
Real cowboys dyed out long ago
with the changin’ of the times.


Tamara Hillman
©2010