One day, while riding on the Spoke
I got to thinking about a real cowpoke.
I got off Rowdy and settled under a tree,
I started to write about Jake and me.
He was a friend of mine for many long years.
We herded, roped and branded many steers.
He came from "Kentuck," so he said.
He was the youngest of three boys, his brothers were dead.
He was always smiling at every day's start.
He had a good singing voice and played the french harp.
He never complained about the work he done.
"Cowboying is tough," he thought it was fun.
He talked about his family all the time.
I never did meet them, though he was a friend of mine.
We parted ways a few years ago.
He was still cowboying at sixty three years old.
I got a letter just the other day,
Jake is gone now, he passed away.
Another real cowboy laid to rest,
A cowboy and friend, one of the best.
I guess it was normal, he went before me.
He was a few years older, you see.
The word of his death chilled me to the bone.
That old Reaper is hitting pretty close to home.
Willie P. 9/21/22
| 
