A ProRodeo cowboy ran his production the River’s Mile “Actual definition: mouth to head of a river”

First it was junior rodeos, kid ropes and cold Cokes

Then it was open ropin’s and Copenhagen/Skoal

Riding kid horses and ropin’ off green broke colts

 

Any rodeo was a superstition and a family tradition

The cowboy didn’t have the famous Round-Up maiden name

Heck he went on ahead and practiced on 20-head

All the rural route boys were in his game

 

When it came to the weekends his family sacrificed

He loaded rodeo horses up in the 3-horse Charmac

The cowboy’s dream wasn’t aligned with any schemes

When he parted the ranch he was trying to pin the #1 on his back

 

The years proceeded and all the titles for he competed

There wasn’t a speck of rural dust the boy hadn’t roped on

The fans roared then invited him to the beer garden

Their big bad ropin’ cowboy could also pour the whiskey down

 

The ruralite cowboy didn’t know anything, but the buzz words

He knew horsemanship, roping techniques, and country radio songs

He was putting on the age and his knees swelled and ached

Then ProRodeo Association abandoned him and he didn’t belong

 

The rodeo cowboy tried to silence his mind to receive intuition

A supersonic neuron pathway only told him he needed entry fees

Wasn’t every rodeo cowboy on a path that would last forever?

The young calf ropers told him he was somebody, “A dying breed.”

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