I am the Lonesome Cowboy, a gaunt and solitary figure you may notice way back in the shadows of your dreams, if those are the dreams you have, and you live alone without friends, without family, without even a place to call your own, or a cat named Puff, if it ran away last week. (...to be discontinued...)
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, and I have found that all roads lead to nowhere, alone, without exception, and I have socks in my pockets.
I am the lonesome Cowboy, chasing squirrels around the park while waiting for my moped to be repaired, singing a plaintive song, avoiding unavoidable uncomfortable eye contact, uncomfortably.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, herder of cats, collector of lint, entrepreneur of small victories in tiny spaces.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, resting, leaning gently against the shed, stroking my face mask by moonlight, accompanied by Ed, my only pal, a cat with permanent traces of mouse breath.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. I stagger at noon and fart at the moon and don't get many dates at all. None in fact. I wonder why — I wash my socks every fortnight, come hell or flying tunafish. Tunafish, now. How do they manage?
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. I watch over you with binoculars (7x, multi-coated, tripod-mounted), and I never sleep.
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And me? Why do you ask?
