I am the Lonesome Cowboy, tootling on my nose flute, drinking champagne, tinkling in the dust, admiring the dark sky of night, and wishing you were here, so that I could leave but yet know, for certain, that someone true would carry on. And now a fart. Ahhh.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, whose name is whispered only by a dark night wind, and once, once only, by a lopsided owl.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, too tall for my boots, too short for a zoot suit. Maybe I'll bake a few pies by candle light and hum a solo tune to the sky.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. I carry my name written on a card in my pocket, on the off chance that, being alone for so long I might forget it, or, still less likely, that you or someone resembling you will ask for it one day. And so it quietly resides with me until that moment, if ever.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. Don't got no notches on my gun, just on my belt, cuz I'm a skinny critter. Like to hide behind bushes too, so's I usually stick to brush country, and travel a lot by night to remain unseen, playing my lonesome kazoo to keep me company, but only in the veriest most empty of places, though sing me a happy tune and I'll find someone who can give you a kiss in sincerest exchange.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. Today might be Tuesday, but in my world all days have the same name: The First of Emptiness. It's just me and my pocket lint. If it weren't for my fuzzy pals in there, life would be pointless. So they do their best to bring me cheer, reliably as always.
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Me? Pondering the issues of banking while disguised as a hamster. Thoughts?
