As cowboys head toward my kitchen after branding calves today,

my front porch takes resemblance of a fashion-show runway.

First comes a short young cowboy, I think his name is “Lance”,

he’s in a blue BUM tee-shirt and some denim wrangler pants.

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He wears a pair of tennis shoes a weathered baseball cap;

“Thank-you Lance” and here we have another well-dressed chap.

Charles wears a striped shirt stretching over his spare tire;

a pair of lace-up ropers is his choice of foot attire.

Again, a pair of Wranglers are the pants he’s chose to wear;

but he’d look a darned sight better if he wore a bigger pair.

Here comes handsome Richard in a shirt that’s starched and clean;

his nice physique accentuates the way he wears his jeans.

His choice of boots are Justins; he puts them all to test

in his silver belly Stetson hat and rugged leather vest.

Then some poor cowboy hobbles up and he is quite a sight;

he looks just like a street bum that has just been in a fight.

His poor old hat is filthy and is badly out of shape;

his boots would be in pieces if it wasn’t for Duct Tape.

His Wranglers are all bloodstained; he must have been the one

that did the castrating . . . the job that is no fun.

His poor old shirt has had it; the pocket’s plum detached,

and has two buttons missing. His wife must never patch!

Then I recognize the buckle, “Champion Roper ‘84”

Why, it’s the one who owns this outfit that comes walking thru the door!