by Dwight Burgess

Although I don’t have cows anymore,
I still wear my cowboy boots.
So I guess they’re not just worn,
By cowboys, but also other galoots.

I’ve walked into a church in the city,
And started lookin’ around for my seat.
It didn’t take long to see I’m alone,
With cowboy boots on my feet.

My brother wears patent leather oxfords,
And he really hollers and hoots.
Whenever I walk into his house,
Wearing my cowboy boots.

Now if a fella’s wearin’ his sneakers,
He can run like a man with the scoots.
But he’d better not have too far to run,
If he’s wearin’ his cowboy boots.

I got rid of all my cattle,
In the spring of Eighty-Four.
Since the price hasn’t gone down,
I haven’t bought any more.

I’ve seen my share of horses,
And the work they could get done.
But now I’d rather drive my pick-up,
And leave the horses to my son.

I gave my son a saddle,
And an old gun that hardly shoots.
But one thing I won’t give away,
Is my right to wear cowboy boots.

Some people might not understand it,
But there is one thing that I crave.
When I go home to be with my Lord,
I’ll wear my boots to the grave.

I hope it won’t be right away,
Cause there’s so much left here to do.
But when I do go I won’t be surprised,
If Saint Peter is wearin’ ’em too.

Dwight Burgess is a cowboy poet living and farming in Wamego, Kansas.

Links

• Visit Dwight Burgess’ homepage, to read more of his work.
• The work of Dwight Burgess also appears in The International Poetry Hall of Fame.

© Dwight Burgess, 1992. All poems are copyright the artist and should not be reproduced without permission.