His Old Pair of Boots

If his old pair of boots could talk,
 they'd tell a story 'bout the time

he drove up over Wolf Creek Pass 
hauling honey, and doing fine.

On old dirt roads of rock and dust, 
not like today, all nicely paved,

with snow still on the mountain tops in June, a summer day.

On the downhill side those brakes gave out, 
all 18 wheels just cut for broke,

and how that man and truck survived, to this day, nobody knows.

He just played it cool. 
He weren't a fool by any means, 

and walked away to drive that truck 
 for many a longer day. 


If his old leather chair could talk, 
it'd tell a story 'bout the time

three children stuffed themselves between the arms, to sit awhile.

The Cowboys playing on TV
 with Roger Dodger in command,

he'd yell, "You kids get out of my chair,
 and stay out. You understand?"

And even though his voice was gruff,
 with Red Man stuffed inside one cheek,

he wasn't really mad at all.
 It didn't mean a thing.

He just played it cool.
 He weren't a fool by any means,

and walked away to drive that truck for many a longer day.


If his old cowboy hat could talk 
it'd tell a story 'bout the time,

the sun beat down with uppercuts,
 no ringside bell in sight.

The shade it gave was small relief,
 and sweat ran off that Stetson brim.

The semi gone beyond repair,
 those 18 wheels and him.

He walked a mile or two, they say,
 across that arid land.

He stumbled out on 35.
 Hot asphalt seared his hands.

He just played it cool.
 He weren't a fool by any means,

but cowboy hearts will one day give,
 and that's all there is to say. 


If his old granite stone could talk, 
it'd tell a story 'bout the time,

he carved himself a family,
 one milestone at a time.

And how he played it cool.
 He weren't a fool by any means,

and would've gladly drove those 18 wheels
 for many a longer day.