I think of the women
you've buffaloed,
mule kicker,
wild man,
when you show me your gun,
the holster with notches,
show how it rides low on your hip.
You've a carnal knowledge
of hip flasks
and fifths
and you look like you've ridden in shows.
You look as though
you've ridden for show,
buffalo hunter,
you've been known to take scalps,
the dark fringe,
the red,
all those sweet little pelts
and the stories you tell,
what the hell, you say
only their lovers would know.

It's always a skirt
that keeps you at bay.
Under whiskey it's like a red flag.
Girl, woman, wife,
they all sound like prey.
You want rope and a bandana gag.
Mustachio'd cowboy,
you stick'em up guy,
it worries me when
someone fondles a gun
when I'm talking to them,
but I've got a stiletto
that I keep in my boot
and I'm watching you closely
my buddy, my pal,
with your eye like a bull.
You can ride, but I know you can't shoot.