© 1997, Michael S. Robinson
Oh, the earth's a fickle mama, like two-thousand pounds of Brahma,
that ya ride eight-seconds, 'fore she throws ya down...
when the one, who bore and nursed ya, turns her back and starts t' curse
ya,
and she tramples ya six-feet beneath the ground.
As his lifeblood pools inside him, there is no one to confide in--
that he wished he'd never done that fateful ride.
But the bull that's fin'lly got him, and to death's dark door has brought
him's
helped him score another solid eighty-five.
Well, each cowboy's merely mortal, and 'll someday reach that portal,
when the summer's done and autumn's fin'lly gone,
when those cheeks of sunburned leather lie so still upon the heather,
and a darkened world awaits a distant sun.
When that giant yolk sinks middle of the west-horizon's griddle,
and a crimson blaze ignites the prairie sod,
when the sky of blue and azure falls, as ketchup, on the pasture,
our world darkens, but it's breakfast time with God.
Though that cowboy's linen-shrouded and the world's all dark and clouded,
when the undertaker gives his head the nod,
that ol' cowboy's horse is revvin' as it launches him t' heaven,
where he's welcomed as a breakfast guest with God.
Yup, he'll sit down at God's table with John Wayne and Betty Grabel,
and then God'll raise his glass, and he will say,
"I could tell, right from the start, My Name was branded on your heart.
Welcome home, my son, you're fin'lly here to stay."
Well, the clocks upon our planet were designed for those who man it,
and they stop dead in a hundred years or so,
but that moment's time in Heaven, was, in Lane's years, twenty-seven,
and that hand's not dead. He's simply on the go.
When that giant yolk sinks middle of the west-horizon's griddle,
and a crimson blaze ignites the prairie sod,
when the sky of blue and azure falls, as ketchup, on the pasture,
our world darkens, but it's breakfast time with God.
