My little buckaroo, trying to rope an' ride like big people do.
Small fingers turning ropes into knots,
throwin' at dogs and mom's flower pots.
Daddy's old number pinned to your chest you're sure you're the best.
Ridin' the fences and your daddy's knee
you'll be a champ by the time you turn three.
Boot clad feet, as dirty as your face,
running to investigate at a whirlwind pace.
unaware life's a mighty long race,
You're sure where you're goin',
that your horse is for ridin',
your rope is for throwin'.
You're sure a true buckaroo,
you'll have the world roped
by the time you are through.
Behind the shack in the woods there used to be,
a tired, gnarled old tree, where you shared your love with me.
Beside the blanket on the grass.
Wild flowers used to grow,