Just Call Me Slim

Yes, Ma’am. Just Call Me Slim st. george utah

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A rancher is a lean machine--like cowboys of the stage;

but lately I’ve been noticin’ the spread of middle age.

My stomach’s started bulgin; I ain’t lookin’ tough an’ trim,

an’ I’ve gotta save my nickname--everybody calls me "Slim."

So I go to Marvin’s Sporting Goods and buy some shoes ‘n’ shorts,

and a fine, precision stopwatch with a movement run by quartz.

It’s a cool Montana mornin’ as I pull my Nike’s on,

and the sky’s a pink carnation in a picture-perfect dawn.

All the cattle, they’re a-sleepin’, but they rise to show respect.

(I know they don’t know better, but it’s sure a nice effect!)

The prairie dogs are standin’ at the edges of the road,

and, disgustin’, green and warty, comes the croakin’ of a toad.

I’ve run near seven miles and it’s heatin’ up a bit.

(I’d quit, but it’s the only way to make my Wranglers fit.)

I’m back at six, and weigh-in shows I’ve lost pret’-near a pound,

but reflectin’ in the mirror shows I’m lookin’ kind o' round.

It’s hard, but I’ll continue, ‘cause I want to be my best,

and cut a handsome picture in my jeans and leather vest.

Tomorrow I’ll run further; Yup, I’ll have to run a bunch

to make up for the hamburgers and fries I ate for lunch.