The Ballad of this on cowboy

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By the creek where the gold dust flows…

Cowboy was born where the mountains rise high,

With a pick in his hand and fire in his eye.

He’d walk through the woods with a pocket of stones,

Chasin’ quartz dreams and leavin’ no phones.

Used to ride bulls when he was just a kid,

Eight seconds of glory, doin’ what he did.

Now the boots still sit by the old wood stove,

Next to chainsaw carvings and tales he wrote.

Now he sings sad songs by the firelight,

About lost loves and the cold, hard nights.

Got a heart like granite, rough but true,

With gold dust veins and a sky so blue.

He carves his pain in a cedar pine log,

Cowboy still wild, though the bulls are long gone.

Dredgin’ that river with a pan in his hand,

He finds little glimmers that folks don’t understand.

But to him it’s more than the shimmer of gold,

It’s stories untold and memories old.

He don’t talk much, but his songs sure do,

They bleed out the years and the hell he’s been through.

Each verse is a scar, each chorus a friend,

Playin’ for ghosts that won’t ever end.

Yeah, he sings sad songs by the firelight,

About bulls, and love, and the lost daylight.

Got a soul like shale, layers run deep,

He don’t cry much, but his strings sure weep.

Still carvin’ truth in an old pine log,

Cowboy still wild, though the bulls are long gone.

So raise up a glass to the miner and man,

To the sawdust poet with a six-string plan.

He might be older, but he ain’t done,

Still chasin’ beauty with a setting sun.