I am the Lonesome Cowboy, wandering the High Plains solo, ever vigilant for wild polka-dots. (Collecting them is my main lonesome hobby.) (Also headless Barbie dolls.) (Don't know why.)
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. Some call me "Lonesome Bob". Others call me "Lonesome Evelyn". Most don't call me, even Mom, which has something to do with why I'm lonesome, I guess, though life could be worse, somehow. Please tell me that tomorrow will be better. Or at least the day after that. Please.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. I have a nose for beasts. Strange, untamed, undomesticated, untrained, unregistered beasts. Beasts with teeth. Nippy beasts. Hungry beasts I know. I have personal knowledge of said wilders, having been nipped severally, often on the nose. From, I suppose, becoming too close and sniffy among various parts. (Can't help it.)
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. It's on my business cards. Write me if you want one. (Address currently unknown.) Have to go now. Moaning time.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. No one else can say that, and mean it. Not alone in the dark by the dark of a dark new moon in a dark hole under a dark tree. And no one wishes to either, I suppose, since I have been for years unable to unload my LC franchise license. Contact me if interested. Even if you aren't. I need distraction. (Please bathe first.)
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, listening, alone in the dark, as the howls grow nearer. Ever nearer. Ever nearer to me some ravenous drooler comes. In the dark. Unless that's the TV in the next room. Could be, but I'm still lonesome and afraid, and haven't washed my socks yet. Maybe I'll try that. Couldn't hurt. But first I shall switch on the light. All the better to see my polka-dots with. More howling. (Is that me?)
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Me? Trying to remember if I have pants. What are pants?
