Cowboy in Paris

I wish I were a cowboy,

well you know,

black Stetson,

big silver buckle above my ” weapon”.

Pointed boots,

hand tooled Mexican bastards.

Sittin’ in some Parisian ” nickel bar”

smellin’ of cow shit

while young girls eye me and contemplate makin’ a move.

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1 Comment

Filed under American West, poetry

One response to “Cowboy in Paris

  1. I’m absolutely mesmerised by your words, so now, like a stalker, I’m peeping in at everything you’ve got.

    I’d make a move, if only for the words you don’t share.

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