My diesel stopped its progress,
When I finally made Cheyenne.
I'd come to conquer buckin' bulls,
Not be some average also ran.
But time has ways of passin',
Leavin' lines upon a face.
And a star that once rose fast,
Can fade away without a trace.
Now I've seen my share of bad wrecks,
Been freight trained and kissed the bull.
But there ain't no rush to match,
When that eight seconds reaches full.
It's like ridin' on the thunder,
While the world around you shakes.
There's flashin' horns and lightin' hooves,
And the ground below you quakes.
A raging beast spins like a cyclone,
Bringing fury straight from Hell.
If you don't bear down that honker,
He'll throw you right into the well.
You just might maybe draw a dink,
Or get yourself an honest bucker.
But when one swaps ends or sets you up,
A man can look just like a sucker.
Just then that hard Wyoming wind,
It jerked me from my reverie.
And faded Wranglers made the trek,
To where I'd pay my entry fee.
It's a fire that's deep inside me,
Burning high for each go-round.
The day that sees me stop competin',
You'll have to plant me in the ground.
I don't expect much understanding,
Since it's true I'm past my prime.
But if those young guns take me lightly,
I just may grab the purse this time.
High Country Communications