Oh, the joys of the life of a cowboy
Just a few men and horses.
No worry about traffic and crowds
No alimony, no divorces.
Looking around at those strong fellows
In their skin-tight denim pants.
Surely they might look around at them
And ask one of them to dance.

Cowboys seem to like to ride the range
I’d ride the ranger instead;
Show him just how much can be arranged
By two men in a bunk bed.
There’d be an especially nice reward
At the end of a long ride.
The is not a doubt in my mind at all
That he would be satisfied.

After a career of bouncing and bucking
Surely he can take a bit more.
I would do my absolute best to be sure
That he would not end up sore.
Well, at least not in the usual places;
The kind that bows his thighs.
And if he is not that good at it at first
I’ll gladly give him more tries.

Oh the joys of the life of a cowboy
Just a few men and horses.
No worry about traffic and crowds
No alimony, no divorces.
Looking around at those strong fellows
In their skin-tight denim pants.
Surely they might look around at them
And ask one of them to dance.

Those folks who think this is too offensive,
Guys think of cheerleaders instead.
Gals think of watching sport figures at play
And ***** things you do in your head.
There’s not really all that much difference;
It’s all a salacious fantasy.
I don’t begrudge you those hot steamy dreams
I won’t let you deny to of me.

Oh the joys of the life of a cowboy
Just a few men and horses.
No worry about traffic and crowds
No alimony, no divorces.
Looking around at those strong fellows
In their skin-tight denim pants.
Surely they might look around at them
And ask one of them to dance.

Emerging from a distant dust-up,
A lone rider approaches on horse.
The clip-clop gallop grows,
The panting animal is alarming,
Sweat paints and streaks down
The dark hide.
The rider wears a bandana
Over mouth and nose,
Beneath a once white hat.
His clothes are covered with the trail.

Next, he's in the leather tub
With suds from chest to hair,
Shaving cream covering his face,
Mirror in one hand,
Probably a gun on the floor of the tub.
Eyes and nose poking through the foam.

Later, we see the clean, pressed black shirt
From the back, outlining shoulders we know
Have been busy righting wrongs.
He puts a cockey tilt to his hat and pivots
With a Parodi between his clean, straight teeth.
The champion. The underdog vanguard.
Clint.