Poem By Chris Purser
Galloping along on his horse he rides. He sits tall, proud, so full of pride.
Little emotion he does show, yet when trouble arises he's first to go.
He's one of a few, a dying breed. Use for him now, there seems no need.
Yet we search and we search all across the land, hoping for a cowboy, six-shooter in hand.
Keep him alive, we need ask in prayer, for if you need him he'll always be there.
So look toward the prairies and the setting sun, and you'll find your cowboy with his glistening gun.