He's got a black hat and he's broke He's lean as a bicycle spoke The fire in his eyes It ain't no surprise He's a cowboy, that ain't no joke
If yer lookin' fer help, he's fer hire He'll spur that bronc down to the wire Or break him to ride And rope either side But don't ask him to sing in the choir
He's no good with a wrench in his hand At milkin' or plowin' up the land But give him a rope A horse at a lope His purpose you'll soon understand
He camps out some nights on the ground He's no good at settlin' down If it don't seem fair He'll say he don't care Say, Bossman, I'll see you around
And ladies,he's usually bad news He's good for a case of the blues But with a guitar In a smokey ol' bar He'll charm you right out of your shoes
To scope him you don't need a key Just remember he'll always be free If that's good enough Then it shouldn't be tough Ya pretty much git what you see
He plays kinda loose with the rules And hardput to tolerate fools But he's good with a horse And children, of course But he's hell on women and mules
Baxter Black

He's the tumble weed chef and rides the wagon ahead of the thunderin' herd. His pots and pans clack like a diamondback's rattle, he growls or he don't say a word.
His face is a roadmap, Looks like a carcass hung to many days in the sun. He smells like a mule and cooks with a shovel and his fly is always undone.
The riders kin tell when he's in the kitchen-- the buzzards all come into view. He spits in the pan and shaves in the taters and clips his toenails in the stew.
His gunpowder biscuits explode in the fire; his beans explode in your bowels. His medda lark souffle is hard on the belly; they say it tastes 'bout like owl.
His coffee's so rank a housefly won't touch it, even buckshot float in the slop. You don't pour a cup, you twist off a swaller, then chew a sip offa the top.
Now, cowboys are tough guys who face death each day in blizzards or stampedes or storms. They ride them bad horses and sleep with the snakes and duel with the hooves and horns.
But many a cowboy who follered the wagon has joined the "last roundup club." Not from indians, gunfights, or even bad whiskey, but from eatin' Camp Cookie's grub
Baxter Black