Now and then I get to thinkin’ I should quit this feedlot job.

Go and ride with Buster, what’s-his-name, his Texas wagon mob.

Maybe move to old Montana, wear them bat wings for a while

Or do California day work in the old vaquero style.

I get my western magazines, shoot, I keep ’em by my chair

And I read ’em after lunchin’, sometimes wishin’ I was there.

See, it all looks so roma...