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Rated: E · Poetry · Western · #1073907
A little thing I forced myself to write.
The West is Dead

Some might say they’re a dying breed,
Others might say they done the deed;
That the very last real cowboy rode
Off to his heavenly abode.

Gone are boots with spurs,
Lost are his shy demurs.
Bereft are the ladies, slim and fat
The courteous tip of his Stetson hat.

No more cowboys in the bunkhouse.
No more smelly old outhouse.
No more little stick horse cowboys
The ranch house is filled with a rich man’s toys.

Even the stubbornest old cuss
With his bluster and fuss
Couldn’t hold out so long
‘Gainst the developer’s song.

Mercedes flies down the old ranch road
Fat cat cutting deals in cell phone mode
Unseen cowboy’s ghost shakes his head
“They Don’t know what’s lost when the West is dead.”
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