You ever shook the hand of a cowboy?
I mean one that’s tried and true.
Not one that just bought the hat and boots,
One that’s worked the whole day through.
There’s something about how he reaches out,
Smiling and looking you straight in the eye.
You know that now you have a friend,
That will be there to carry you when you die.
His hands are tough as bull hide leather,
From years of working with out a glove.
They are the color of old burnt bacon,
Thanks to the old sun above.
He’s got a story for every scar,
Some are lies and some are true.
But most of them came from doing work,
That most men weren’t willing to do.
His palms are rough as an old gravel road,
And they’re cracked worse than desert land.
But the most obvious thing to me,
Is the love that’s in a cowboy’s hand.
He’s the very first guy to pat your back,
When you’ve made a real good ride.
Even quicker to help you off the ground,
To encourage you to give it one more try.
His hands are soft when he holds his girls,
Even softer when he hugs his wife.
He pauses to fold those rugged hands,
And thank the lord for his cowboy life.
The cowboy gives thanks for his family,
And for the friends he’s made along the way.
Most importantly he thanks the Lord,
For For the debt he didn’t have to pay.
You see cowboy wages aren’t that good,
That’s why we call it a “way of life”.
At the end of the month he could buy a steak,
But there’s no cash left to buy a knife.
You can’t put a price on the life he lives,
Or comprehend the view form his office seat.
He’s seen the beauty of the hills in spring,
That would make your heart skip a beat.
To a cowboy, God isn’t an imaginary friend,
He’s dang sure not a genie in a sack.
A cowboy meets with God every day,
Weather he’s fixin’ fence or climbin his kack.