she signed
'may your inner cowboy
frequent plenty of midnight executions,
saloons, cigarettes, and prostitutes'
on the last page of the country
music book she bought me.
There were so many whiskey
and cigarette deaths
on those lonesome pages
and she knew how much I hated
that those same things weren't killing me.
Thinkin bout train
songs and downtown little rock
still the same
hard luck cowboy
that only grew up
a little.
a kind of decent first attempt. it's mostly true.
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