I never tasted the salt marshes,
or was bit by the deadly cottonmouth;
but on horseback, I can pretend.
A six shooting outlaw will ride past
whooping & hollering 'bout gold dust
stashed in the foothills outside of town.
Sloshing his way through an old saloon, looking
daring someone to brawl in the bare streets,
fists gleaming with the punches, bloodstains flow'n,
this, while I ride by.
True, tis no mainstreet, just a path outwards
through the woods, over hill to grandmas house;
my weathered jeans, not homespun of cotton,
nor tweed hat to adorn my brow;
but horseback is not for fairy lovers,
only those seeking hold of open land,
skirted girls who spit fire, brandy. Guilt.
All found in a lazy eye, while wandering.
Stables reached, and with one fair glance backwards,
I am the old man wrapped in a young'ens brow.
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