Cowboy

I rode into town the other day

and the sheriff told me to get underway.

He looked at my boots and gave me a wink

and pointed out they’re very pink.

He said I could stay in his frontier town

if I got some new boots, preferably brown.

About my new Stetson I’d recently bought

he reckoned, quite strongly, I probably ought

to take it back down to the clothinbg store

and trade it in for something more

fitting and proper for the local scene.

So what’s wrong with purple and mossy green?

There were other things about my attire

that roused his prickly Sheriff’s ire.

My buckle, he claimed, was all the wrong size,

he objected to the makeup around my blue eyes.

He said I’m supposed to straddle the horse,

but I ride side saddle with no guilt or remorse.

I conclude this isn’t a friendly town.

I think I will simply turn around

and stake my claim in the valley there

where people don’t snicker and rudely stare

at a dude who’s a cowboy through and through

or his trusty horse that’s painted blue.