Feedlot Heroes

Now and then I get to thinkin’ I should quit this feedlot job. Go and ride with Buster, what’s-his-name, his Texas wagon mob. Maybe move to old Montana, wear them bat wings for a while Or do California day work in the old vaquero style. I get my western magazines, shoot, I keep ’em by my chair And I read'em after lunchin’, sometimes wishin’ I was there. See, it all looks so ...